


Forget Me Not

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of medical inaccuracy, Abuse of French language, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, occasional food porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 103,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras loses four years worth of memories after a nasty car accident. Though he still remembers who Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, he also finds himself with a herd of friends he doesn't remember meeting. Friends who are exactly what his blank mind needs to recollect his missing memories.</p><p>or : the amnesia fic no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To the Days Gone By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! I don't know what I've got myself into but I'll try to make this as interesting and fun to read as I can! The idea for this fic has been haunting me and there was no way I could have left it unwritten  
> Since I'm French, the fic is going to be peppered by little french pop-culture references or even words but fear not, I'll run a whole dictionary down below if ever you get lost ;) But everything should be comprehensible either way
> 
> As always, your feedback is more than welcomed. You know the thing with fairy? You need to believe in them for them to live? Well here is basically the same thing. With more feelings.

Everything was a mess of beeps and dull colours, of pain and dizziness as he was drifting in and out of consciousness. Nothing was static but rather whirling around him in blurry shapes, twisting his already confused mind. Where am I? What's going on? Those two questions were as basic as they got but they were the only ones he could still put together. The rest was just a long string of mingled perceptions : blinding lights, annoying beepings, muffled voices, a grey ceiling. And a smell. The distinctive smell of sickness and antiseptic. But distinctive of what, he couldn't tell. Instead, he passed out.   
   
By the time he came to once more, the ceiling had toned down its vigorous spin into a gentler waltz. The details of his surroundings, though still hazy, appeared somewhat sharper. His eyed took a while to get used to the assaulting brightness, but he could definitely make out the shape of an IV bag hanging just above his head, hooked to a pole.   
   
Looking up made his headache worse so he closed his eyes to gather himself, mentally thanking whoever had had the brilliant idea to keep the lights to a minimum. He was certain that any source of direct brightness would have left him blind and screaming.   
   
A strangled cough escaped from his dry throat. Damn, he could have killed for a glass of water. He shuffled his arm against the mattress, only to discover how little motion he could manage. His brow furrowed. What the _hell_ was going on?!   
   
His attention was quickly diverted by something on his left, the sound of ruffling fabric and light footsteps getting closer. Instinctively, his head turned towards the noise, though his eyes remained firmly closed, shying away from the world. Something warm, a hand maybe, settled on his shoulder. The warmth of the touch had something reassuring to it, and if there was something he could do with right now, it was comfort.   
   
"Hey.." whispered a man's voice. It was a little rasp, as though its owner hadn't talked in a while.   
   
A thumb began to stroke his shoulder and, ever so slowly, he managed to open his eyes. Everything was blurry at first. He vaguely recognised the dull shade of the ceiling and what ought to be the oval of someone's face. It took a few seconds for his pupils to adjust and soon, overwhelmingly blue eyes were staring back at him. He took a deep breath, as though the sight of a fellow human being had revived him, but as the air lifted his chest, a sharp pain left him wincing in pain. The stroke on his shoulder tightened as well.   
   
"I know, I know... Don't fill your lungs too much.." The empathy and compassion in his voice somewhat eased the pain, like balm applied directly to his wounds.   
   
He took another, though confused, look at the man. Only now did he notice the yet striking redness in his eyes, tainting the blue of his irises. His gaze ran along his features, his tired but nevertheless relieved smile, his messy black curls... Did he know him? Surely he would have remembered...   
   
"Next time you want to let your inner drama queen run free, humour me and avoid the whole hospital thing, eh?"    
   
He didn't know why, but the corners of his lips twitched in what he hoped to be a smile. His own voice didn't seem to obey him yet, his dry throat cutting every attempt to speak short.   
   
"The doctors told us to warn them if you wake up. I'm going to bring in Ferre and Joly, they can't be far."   
   
No! No, he couldn't go! He had not even told him what had happened! He managed to let out a strangled, panicked noise that stopped the man from storming out of the room.   
   
"Don't worry, I'll be right back!"   
   
And he was gone.    
   
His gaze fixed on the ceiling, he tried to catch small breaths, stopping filling his lungs the moment the sting was getting too unbearable. What the fuck was happening? Who was that guy? For how long had he been here? The only thing that brought a bit of peace to his troubled and puzzled mind was the thought of Combeferre. If there was someone who could spit it out clearly, it was Ferre. Yes. Ferre would know. Ferre would explain.

He took a quick look down to his arms. One seems completely fine, though covered by an ugly hospital blouse. One other didn't tell quite the same story. No wonder he had failed to move it : it was trapped in a blue cast stretching from his wrist up to a little over his elbow. Did he fall? Ferre, he remembered. All of this was going to be explained. Lucky they had had their last Bac exam just a week ago, he thought. Writing with his left hand would have been a bitch.

 By the time someone stepped in the room again, he had almost nodded off. Staying conscious was asking way more strength than he had to give. The sound of footsteps startled him and his effort to lift his head from the pillow was welcomed by a painful stiffness. A doctor as standing at the door, white coat and all, seemingly skimming through the chart he was holding in his hand. His chart.

"Welcome back, young man," he smiled, finally looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

'Like shit' was the real answer that he would have liked to provide but there was no way he'd manage to articulate it. So instead, he mouthed a voiceless :

"Thirsty."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

The doctor extend his arm toward him and, for a second, he thought he was going to touch his face but the hand went beyond his face to grab something on the nightstand. A glass of water soon appeared in his field of vision, accompanied with a bright yellow stray. The doctor needn't say a word to his patient for him to start drinking. It felt like salvation, an unexpected rain on a desert, alleviating his parched lips and dry throat. When he finally let the straw go, he had drunk half of the glass.

"Good. Can you tell me your name, please?"

His lips parted, ready to answer, but nothing came out. In the meantime, the other man retrieved a small flashlight out of this pocket. He braced himself for what he knew was coming, but the blinding light still left him groaning and turning his face the other direction.

"Enjolras," he then blurted out, out of nowhere.

Yes. Enjolras. That was his name. Of course it was.

"Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital."

"Which city?"

"...Paris?" he offered, tentatively.

The doctor's quick hum of approval confirmed his answer. The latter began to pat his sides, his face and his stomach, leaving Enjolras wincing in the midst of the medical procedure.

"What year is it?"

"2011."

The hands that were now dabbing his neck froze, as did the doctor's face. Enjolras furrowed his brow, waiting for an explanation but none came. Instead, the doctor resumed his professional expression, letting his patient's body be for the time being.

"Alright," he whispered, in a tone that let Enjolras understand that it wasn't 'alright' at all.

"What happened?" he ended up asking, because all the 'alright's, hospital rooms and pains had begun to take their toll on him.

"Traffic collision," the doctor answered, soberly. "You were hit by a car last night. Your arm took most of the impact and your right side has sustained some cuts, you have a slight pneumothorax but it's your head that worries us the most. You had a head trauma due to your fall, your head hit the pavement quite badly."

Enjolras's gaze lost itself somewhere above the doctor's shoulder. An accident? There had been no accident. Not that he could recall at least. He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself down after the bomb that had just been dropped on him, only to be painfully reminded that deep breaths were no longer an option.

 "Do you remember anything about the accident?"

He shook his head slightly, scared that any more movement would prove to be a mistake. What about his legs, though? A rush of panic overwhelmed him and he began wiggling his toes frenetically to check everything was ok below his waist. His foot moving beneath the covers was the most comforting sight he could think of there and then. It seemed to amuse the doctor for a second before he asked :

"How old are you?"

"18."

"What is your last memory? The last thing you remember doing?"

Enjolras stared at the ceiling, deep in thoughts. There had been a party to celebrate the end of exam season... Courfeyrac would have ended up in trouble with the police for public drunkenness if it had not been for Comberre, who had swiftly defused the sticky situation... Then they had gone to a midnight screening of the new X-Men, whatever that one was about, he just remembered James McAvoy being in it.

"We went to the post Bac party and we saw a movie..."

 There was another noncommittal hum as the doctor scribbled down on the chart. Something was wrong, Enjolras could feel it. He had never been admited to a hospital before but all these questions sounded weird. Wasn't his age supposed to be written down on the chart? Why ask him, then? To see if he knew?

"Sorry but what's going on?"

His voice was tainted by exhaustion but he wanted to get to the bottom of this before passing out once more.

"You were in a traffic collision.."

"Yeah yeah I know that part," he cut off, struggling to make the words come out. "Why... why ask... what I remember?"

The doctor's lips thinned.

"I would appear that the shock against the pavement has damaged your long term memory."

The pounding of his heart was echoing in his ears, deafening him. He swallowed the ball of anxiety that had settled in his throat with difficulty. Calm. He had to stay calm.

"How... How much?" Even his own voice felt eerily distant.

"Four years. It is not uncommon with head injuries, some patients lose more than that. It is what we call retrograde amnesia."

"Retrograde amnesia..." he repeated, in complete disbelief.

"Most patients recover their memory after a while, Enjolras. Through everyday life, they get bits and pieces until they can put the whole puzzle together. It's generally not a life-long condition. What is important here is that your body is in good hands."

Enjolras rested his head deep onto the pillow, as though crushed by the weight of the news. Four years... A lot could happen in four years. He could have become anything in four years! This couldn't be happening! This was all one big joke. Courf must have talked the doctors in on a joke to prank him, there was no other way! In one second, the doctor would lose his solemn tone and Courf and Ferre would come in, laughing their asses off. Right? But no matter how long he waited, no one laughed.

He was about to receive further details about his recovery when a cheerful voice boomed at the door :

"Look who I've found, Apollo!"

Both him and the doctor jumped at the unexpected entrance and turned towards the door. On the threshold, the mystery man from earlier was holding two more people by the shoulders : one slightly smaller, beaming in his direction, the other tall, dark-skinned and distinctively Combeferre. But also distinctively not the Combeferre he remembered. ****

His heart leaped at the sight of his best friend. Sure, he was still the same, his features had not drastically changed and yet everything about him felt odd. That new haircut, those new clothes (wait a minute was he wearing scrubs?!), this face that was still his but undeniably more... adult! Did he look like that as well?!

"Ferre..."

"Welcome back, Enj' ", Combeferre smiled of his soft, warm smile that had not changed in spite of the years.

Quick on his feet, the doctor left Enjolras's bedside.

"May we have a word outside?"

All of the smiles froze and faded away at the grave tone. Ferre cast Enjolras a worried glance over the physician's shoulder. He suddenly felt very alone, lying down in this bed as the only familiar face was leaving the room. Windows on the wall were allowing him to see enough of the corridor to make out their heads, bowed down in a serious conversation, but none of the conversation itself. As the doctor dropped the "a" bomb, all turned to look at him through the window. The impact of the news was clearly legible on their faces. The blond guy's mouth was agape in disbelief and Ferre began running his fingers endlessly through his hair to calm himself down. The third one, with the unruly black curls, quite simply took off, disappearing from his sight. Enjolras opened his mouth, as though ready to defend himself, to explain, but there was nothing to explain. Then why did he feel like it was his fault?

His headache has tripled. All these events had left him drained and stretching his neck to see through the windows had not helped one bit. His head fell back down onto the pillow, reviewing all of the faces he'd just seen, the raw emotions painted all over them. Sadness. Shock. Distress... He caught one last glance at the ceiling before losing consciousness.

* * *

 He woke up to the muffled sound of television. After a few seconds of confusion, the impersonality of the room struck him, reminding him of where he was. What had happened. Or rather, what he had been told had happened. Next to him, Combeferre was sat on an armchair, his undivided attention focused on what he was watching. Enjolras blinked. The light was not as unbearable as before, he noticed. Looking through the window, he saw the faint glow of dawn. A new day as himself. Whoever that meant now.

"What're you watching?"

Combeferre flinched at the weak rattle his voice had come to. He lowered the sound with the remote and oriented the armchair to face Enjolras.

"A documentary on Komodo Dragons," he explained softly. His hand reached for the glass with the plastic straw and presented it to him. "Apparently they can see a prey as far as 300 metres away."

"How 'bout that," Enjolras exhaled after a long sip.

 He rested his head back, his eyes locked in Combeferre's as the latter let out a deep sigh. They stayed like that for a while, revelling in the comfortable silence.

"How are you feeling?" Ferre eventually asked.

To be fair, he was feeling a lot more alert than the last time he had awoken, though his body still felt mushy. The room had stopped spinning on itself, which was a considerable improvement.

"Younger, I guess."

"Yeah I've heard..."

Enjolras had so many questions and yet he couldn't bring himself to voice them aloud. As though putting them into actual words would make this whole situation real. But it was real. It wasn't a joke. Combeferre was proof of it, him and the changes that four years had left on his being. Better rip the bandaid now.

"Have... things changed a lot?"

"Yeah..," Combeferre nodded with a sympathetic smiled. "But not in a bad way, you'll see."

He lifted a sluggish hand to rub his eyes, barely feeling the sting of the IV in his arm. They've probably put me on a strict painkiller diet, he thought.

"Do I look as ancient as you?"

His friend laughed quietly.

"Enj', you've been knocked down by a car, antediluvian is the word I'd choose."

" 'Antediluvian' of course that's the goddamn word you'd choose," Enjolras teased, closing his eyes to muster what little strength he had. "What's with the scrubs?"

Combeferre was still wearing those hospital scrubs he had seen him in earlier. Or maybe they were new ones. How long had he been asleep exactly?

"Oh, that. I'm an extern here, it's a teaching hospital. My shift ended what, two hours ago?"

Extern... Ferre was in med school... Med school. Damn. Sure, they had talked about what they were going to do after high school but it still came as a surprise. He remembered Combeferre talking about either medicine or biology, whereas Courf... Courf!

"What about Courf?" he exclaimed, disrupting the calm atmosphere.

"Courf is fine. He was here yesterday with Eponine and Bahorel. He wanted to stay but he's working tomorrow so I've sent him back to the flat with a good kick in his ass. He's demanded hourly updates though."

"Atta boy..."

Or course, he didn't mention that he had no idea who "Eponine and Bahorel" were. Maybe that was implied. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been his best friends since the first year of high school, the years that he had not lost. Those people, on the other hand, belong to another past. 

"The flat?" he asked after a moment, furrowing his brow.

"Yup, our flat, yours, mine and his. In Belleville. It's quite nice when Courf doesn't let his socks everywhere, you'll see."

'You'll see'. It was strange to think that he _had_ already seen that place before. He _had_ met those strangers before, hell, apparently he had befriended them! And yet there was no trace of that in his memory.

He had kept his eyes closed, thinking of all he had to ask, all that was vital to ask but the words were mingling in his mind and all of the awareness he had felt earlier was melting away. The warm touch of Combeferre's hand on his shoulder reminded him of another tender caress he had received last night.

"I'll leave you be. You need rest, Enj'."

"No..."

"Yes."

"Who was there last night?" His voice was nothing but a whisper.

"There will be time for all that when you wake up."

It was clear in his voice that Combeferre wasn't leaving his friend with a light heart but because he had to. The last thing Enjolras heard before plunging head first into slumber was the ever so quiet steps of a tired med student leaving the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French references :  
> Bac (or Baccalauréat) : the french national exam at the end of the very last year of high school. Pronounced like "back"  
> Extern : A med student during his 4th year of medical school. They are doing they externat at a teaching hospital as training course for their future career
> 
> And here we go! Let me know what you think, I'd love to hear your thoughts! And if you really want to say hi, my tumblr is at just-french-me-up.tumblr.com, my arms are wide open!


	2. Pâtisseries & Flashcards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support, kudos and comments! They kept my fingers glued to the keyboard so here is chapter 2 for you all!  
> I've also spent way too much time on Rinmaru bringing my vision of les Amis to life because I can't draw so if you're interested : [ Enjolras](http://img11.hostingpics.net/pics/754287MyStyle1.jpg), [ Grantaire](http://img11.hostingpics.net/pics/435311MyStyle.jpg), [ Combeferre](http://img15.hostingpics.net/pics/521021MyStyle7.jpg) and [ Coureyrac](http://img15.hostingpics.net/pics/868693MyStyle1.jpg)  
> Let me know if you want to see the rest of the clique and which one :P

The sun was already high up in the sky by the time he resurfaced. His eyes fluttered against the light of day, still half-way between slumber and consciousness. He let out a long, deep-seated yawn, ready to go back to sleep.

But things, of course, are never that simple.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart, rise.and.shine."

Enjolras's eyes flew open at the voice booming next to him. He lifted his chin and his gaze met a wide grin that he would have recognized no matter what. His own lips bloomed into a tired smile.

"Courf."

"Bingo! At least you've not forgotten the most important!"

Courfeyrac was sitting on the same seat Combeferre had occupied a few hours before, except his posture was desperately more... well, Courfeyrac, which could have be described as "a-prince-lounging-on-his-throne-like-he-couldn't-be-bothered". But the familiarity of his demeanour had something comforting to it, something he could hold on to. Enjolras took a long look at his best friend. He too had changed, matured even. His dark brown hair was now flowing in lush curls on each side of his face and he had finally pierced his left ear like he had always talked about. Enjolras wondered if they had been together the day he had decided to do it. Knowing Courfeyrac, they had probably gone to Claire's to get it over with, against Combeferre's advice.

"Ok so, first things first, how do I look?" Courf asked, running his fingers through his hair for emphasis

"Old," Enjolras smirked.

"Fuck off, I aged like fine wine. Amnesiac AND blind, Jesus, you've won the lottery!" he scowled, giving his friend a playful tap on the shoulder.

They both laughed, one quietly and the other wholeheartedly. It felt good to let go. It felt right. Natural even. At least he needn't focus to do so.

"Are you feeling any better?"

Enjolras pondered on the question for a few seconds, trying to establish his own diagnosis. His head had stopped killing him for good, which had considerably increased his alertness. His chest, though still sore, was letting more air in than it previously had and he gladly took a deep breath to make sure. Even the stench of the hospital was welcomed in these conditions.

"I...think so?"

"Good, then you're going to sit up!" Courf declared, all enthusiastic at the idea

"What for?"

"Breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are, you haven't eaten anything solid in two days. Come on, espèce de grosse feignasse."

Courfeyrac stood up from the armchair himself to give Enjolras some much needed help and clapped his hands to motivate him. The latter rolled his eyes but obliged his friend nonetheless, lifting his back from the mattress as high as he could manage. Courfeyrac placed his hands under his arms and shifted his back against the headrest. He then padded the pillow before sticking it gingerly behind Enjolras's neck.

"See, much better! Now! Look at what I've got for you!"

Courfeyrac grabbed a bag on the nearby table and after a bit of excavation, retrieved a crumpled paper bag from it. With all his care, he unfolded the whole thing to reveal a golden, mouthwateringly shiny croissant covered in almond flakes. Enjolras had been wrong before : he was hungry. He had just failed to realize it before the buttery smell of baked goods had overpowered that of the hospital.

He took the croissant with his good hand, smiling at the feeling of the puff pastry flaking beneath his fingers. From up-close, he noticed a "Get better" written in a fine, elegant chocolate icing on the crust. The calligraphy would have made a scholar blush with envy, so much so that when Enjolras took his first bite, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. But his guilt was quickly pushed aside by the sheer pleasure of eating.

"Croissant aux amandes straight from Valjean's," Courf said, "Cosette made it especially for you."

His mouth full, Enjolras quirked an eyebrow in his direction. Who?

"Oh, right," the other remembered, "she's a friend of ours, her dad owns the best bakery in the neighbourhood. She's working there for the summer."

He nodded, trying to etch that piece of information somewhere in his skull. There were so many names he couldn't associate with a face already! The mention of work reminded him something else, something Combeferre had said the day before.

"Aren't _you_ supposed to be at work?"

"I _was_ , mum. I was on duty from 10 to 14, I'm waitering tables at a bistrot down our flat."

"Wait, what time is it?"

The room had no clocks on display to indicate the time of day nor did it have a nice enough view of the corridor to catch a glimpse of one. Enjolras had merely been relying on daylight to figure it out and apparently, that method wasn't foolproof. It also struck him that he had no idea of today's date. Nor what month. He had quickly done the math and worked out that they were in 2015 but that was the limit of his knowledge.

Courfeyrac plunged his arm into his bag once more and took his phone out.

"It is four hours and thirty six minutes in the afternoon, my good sir. We're the 25th of May 2015 and the weather forecast predicts a bit of rain in the evening."

Enjolras nodded once more, nibbling on his croissant.

"Now," Courf continued, rubbing his hands together, "Is there anything else you want to know?"

And oh boy there was. He didn't know where to begin at first, but once that door had been opened, questions began to pour out of his lips with Courfeyrac was trying his best to keep up. He learnt that he had just finished his Master 1 in Science Politique and apparently "aced his finals", that Ferre, Courf and himself had moved in together just before their first year at university and that "the rent was pretty sweet once divided into three". Courfeyrac told him about his own Licence in Info-Com and his first year in an internet press Master, drifting to Ferre's med school experience and how "there were pictures of medical procedures all over the flat, it was proper gross." Enjolras was listening closely, trying to take it all in. His friend then went on about the blog Enjolras had created during their second year at university, dealing with politics, social issues and other things that proved to Enjolras himself that he had not changed that much in four years.

"Les Amis de l'ABC is pretty successful online!" Courf even claimed.

"Les Amis de l'ABC.." Enjolras repeated. "That's the name of my blog?"

"Yup! Though it's more of a co-administered thing. You're the founder and supervisor but we all meet and write articles."

He could not have explained why, but Enjolras felt a pleasant sense of pride warming his chest. He had created something worthwhile and defending a cause he believed in, something that reached out to people and brought them together. He had not spent four years sat on his hands while watching the world turning in a direction he disagreed with.

"Who is we, exactly?"

"I'm glad you asked!"

Soon, Enjolras was handed a stack of flashcards covered in colours, scribbles and glued photographs. The one at the very top was none other than his own. His index fell on the picture that accompanied it, retracing the shape of his chin. So that was what he looked like now... It could have been worse, he thought. At least he looked healthy on that photo. His eyes fell on the data Courfeyrac had filled in : his address, his studies... His heart skipped a beat when he stumbled upon the "relationship status" entry. Fuck, he had not thought about that. It had not even crossed his mind! What if he had met someone and completely forgotten?

"Relationship status : married to France", he read aloud, furrowing his brow. "Please tell me it's France as in the country."

Courfeyrac's laughter was quick to fill the room.

"Yes, man, France as in the country. Who the hell would be named _France_ , anyway."

"Said someone called Courfeyrac," Enjolras teased with a half-smile.

"Touché, sir, touché."

But he didn't get a chance to flick further through the flashcards as someone knocked on the door. Combeferre, finally out of his scrubs, smiled at the both of them, before closing the door behind him. He grabbed a cheap-looking chair on his way to the bed and settled next to Courfeyrac, resting a hand on the latter's back. Enjolras didn't know if his smile hurt because of the bruises on his cheeks or because it was way too wide. But he couldn't help himself but to do so at the sight of his two best friends by his bedside.

"So how are you?" the new incomer asked.

Enjolras understood at that very moment that he'd better get used to that question because a lot of people were going to repeat it over and over. If he were to believe he had as many friends as the number of cards he was holding, he was up for a good bunch of "how are you"s.

"Never better," he smiled nonetheless.

"I was filling him in on what his melon erased," Courfeyrac added.

"It's not so much erased as on stand by, though," Ferre corrected earnestly.

Enjolras nodded slowly, taking the last bite of his croissant. That was what he had been told last night, that his memories were in lockdown somewhere in his brain. He pictured it as a big box closed by a security code he couldn't crack no matter how hard he tried. Maybe the cypher key was right in his hands, hidden in those people he had once met and was going to meet again.

The conversation went on, the three of them either reminiscing about the past Enjolras remembered or telling him about things he didn't. He learnt about the demonstrations they had been to, the ones they had led, the ones that had succeeded and others that hadn't. They talked about France, what had changed and what had stayed immuably the same ("Line 4 is still hell on Earth, you wouldn't believe it!").

The afternoon was almost over when Combeferre looked at his watch.

"We'd better head home, Courf, Enj' has probably had enough for the day."

Enjolras would have disagreed, after all he had so much to catch up on, but he did feel sleepy. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, had no intention to go.

"Mon coeur... He needs rest, there is so much his brain can endure at a time," Ferre argued gently.

"Bullshit, the dude slept for an entire day, hell, he's got days of sleeping ahead of him!"

"Courfeyrac.."

"He's got four years to catch up on, and don't Courfeyrac me," he pouted.

"Look at you two bickering like an old married couple," Enjolras snickered.

The both of them had eventually stood up, gathering there stuff. Combeferre helped Courfeyrac to put on his jacket, smoothing the fabric at his shoulder after the latter had slipped it on.

"Actually the wedding isn't until next May," Courf let out, matter-of-factly.

Enjolras laughed some more, waiting for the echo of his friends' but nothing came. There was merely a smile on Ferre's lips. His own laughter died slowly, leaving the room silent.

"Wait, what?"

Ferre sighed, though he was clearly amused by the situation.

"There's no wedding, Enj'. But yeah... Courf and I have been a thing for a while now."

His hand slid into Courfeyrac's for emphasis, their fingers intertwining like two pieces of a puzzle. Enjolras looked at them as though he was seeing them for the first time. Sure, they had always been like cat and mouse and he had heard his fair share of drunken ramblings from Courf about how tall and _perfect_ Ferre was. But in spite of this extended courtship that had lasted all of high school, they had never actually been together. Enjolras felt the corners of his lips twitch into a smile, a smile that then faded into the widest grin he could manage.

"Three years is a pretty damn long while," Courf added.

"Took you two idiots long enough. Shame same sex marriage isn't legal here though, I liked the sounds of that wedding," Enjolras mused

His mind wandered for a second, thinking about going to Belgium for a weekend and celebrate the wedding there. He failed to notice his friends' side glances and goofy smiles until Courfeyrac simply burst out in a roaring laughter.

"What?"

"Actually... France legalized same-sex marriage."

"WHAT?!"

* * *

 The rest of the afternoon and part of the evening were spent in a blissful and much needed nap. Doctors must have checked on him in his sleep because by the time he woke up, things had been moved around and the curtains drawn. On the night stand, Courfeyrac's flashcards had been left untouched in the same neat pile he had left them. Enjolras sat up in his bed the best he could, with a bit of wincing and grunting in the process.

He took the cards and scattered them onto his lap. His eyes fell on names that he had never heard before : "Feuilly", "Jehan", "Musichetta", "Bossuet" and many more. He took the latter's card in hand to inspect it in more details. The photograph showed an olive-skinned guy with a big grin plastered onto his face holding a stuffed eagle in his hands. Courfeyrac had even captioned "Lesgle et l'aigle" right beneath it. A quick read through informed him that Bossuet and himself were at the same Fac, that "we all thought Bossuet was going to be hit by a car first but you piped him at the post" and that he was in a relationship with both Musichetta and Joly.

Joly. That name rang a bell, although he couldn't quite place it. He looked for Joly's card among the chaos of colours, writings and pictures. Eventually, he pulled out the right one and remembered the glasses, the black hair and kind smile. He was with Ferre last night. And it had not been just the two of them... Enjolras recalled blue, stunningly blue eyes. Frantically, he started hunting for the familiar shade and stumbled upon a photograph featuring Bossuet trying to feed french fries to his mystery man. Grantaire, he read. He stayed like that, watching the picture for a good minute, detailing Bossuet and Grantaire's silly smiles as the latter was keeping his mouth irremediably shut, blocking his friend's attempt to shove food into it. Enjolras could just tell they had both burst out laughing the second after this had been taken. He even wondered if he had not been the one taking it.

"Knock knock."

Enjolras raised his head, suddenly reminded of the world. On the threshold, Joly was waving at him with the hand that wasn't busy holding various tupperwares and he couldn't help but smile.

"Good evening, Enjolras," he greeted, getting to the table and starting to sort his tupperwares out.

"Hello, Joly."

He saw the latter beam at his own name but he didn't ask how Enjolras knew it. Courfeyrac had probably told them all about the cards. He gathered all of the said cards to put them back on the nightstand.

"I would ask whether of not you feel better but I checked your chart just before coming in," Joly confessed.

"And what does it say?"

"That the wounds on your side are closing nicely and that your pneumothorax is getting better. Here, take this," he handed him one of the tupperwares along with a plastic fork. "Musichetta made it for you, she's..."

"Your girlfriend," Enjolras finished, nodding towards the pile of cards on the nightstand.

"Yes. She said she'd die before she let you eat that hospital crap, so here you go."

Enjolras took a look inside the tupperware. It had been filled with slices of avocados and tomatoes, what he guessed to be rocket leaves, croutons and seasoning. He gladly picked a bit of everything with his plastic fork.

"It's very nice of her."

The two of them began to eat in silence. And though this silence didn't seem to embbarass Joly whatsoever, Enjolras somehow still felt the need to fill it. He was the one Joly had come to see after all, staying there in silence would have been a bit counterproductive.

"So you're working here with Ferre then?"

"For our externat, yeah. We met in the first year of med school. He's the one who introduced me to you all, at the time you founded the ABC," he explained. "That's how I met Bossuet too. He was already with Musichetta at the time. One day, him and Grantaire were trying to establish which one could roller skate best after five shots and he ended up cutting his knee open like the idiot that he is so I had to stitch him. Then Chetta came to tell him off and we all kind of just... happened. So in a way I kind of owe you my love life. Well, you and Ferre."

Enjolras smiled, taking another bite of his salad. It was strange, thinking that he had something to do with someone else's private life, that his actions had had such a ripple effect. He had never considered himself a matchmaker but that was what he had apparently come to. And to be honest, he couldn't say that he minded, given the tenderness with which Joly spoke of his partners.

They kept chatting for a while before Joly's phone rang in his pocket.

"Shoot, that's my alarm, my shift begins in ten minutes."

He gathered the now empty tupperwares and put them away into his bag.

"Good luck," said Enjolras. "Thank your girlfriend for me!"

"I sure will! Have a good night, Enjolras, sleep can do wonders to the brain!"

With one last wave, Joly walked out of the room, leaving a full belly and a light heart behind him.

* * *

 The next morning was busier. Doctors and nurses came in and out of his room, changing his sheets, making sure he was taking his medication and at the right time, testing his reflexes and his memory and other festivities that he would have rather traded with another friendly visit.

Enjolras had to wait until the afternoon, however, for one of those.

He had been watching TV for a while after lunch (Musichetta had been right, hospital food was hardly palatable), flickering through various channels to get a hang of what was going on in the world, when a huge spray of flowers appeared at the door. Someone that he immediately recognized as Jehan, thanks to the pictures, followed, holding the whole thing at arm's length. Enjolras quickly reviewed what he had read on Jehan's card : philosophy student, worked at Musichetta's floral shop, strawberry blond, not ginger, literature lover, a certain affection for flowers. And he could see that! The card also specified that Jehan had his own fashion style and if Enjolras had not understood what that meant then, the leather jacket, combat boots and the flower print leggings clarified it for him.

The bouquet ended up on the nightstand and Jehan pulled up a chair. His long hair had been gathered into a long braid peppered with daisies and for a second, Enjolras was reminded of elves and nymphs he had seen in movies when he was a child. Jehan truly was a mythical creature.

"Afternoon m'dear, I'm just popping by on my lunch break to see your mug," he said, settling a foot on one of his knee. "We were told your room was sad as hell so the boss and I decided to brighten up the place a little bit."

Enjolras raised his gaze to the flowers. It was indeed an improvement.

"Thank you, Jehan."

Jehan took  the flashcards with cautious hands, reviewing each one with a smile until he got to his own.

"Mmmh, Courf didn't use my better profile," he mused. "But he did a hell of a good job with these. Though 'he who knows others is learned; He who knows himself is wise'."

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow, a half-smile blooming on his lips.

"Who wrote that?"

"It's in the Tao Te Ching, it's Chinese philosophy. I'll get it for you if you want."

"So does that mean that I'm not wise yet?" Enjolras quipped.

Jehan laughed softly at his remark and stood up to ruffle his hair

"Oh my, you've never been wise. Leave that to Combeferre, you're the fiery one."

He went by the window, looking down at the people passing by on the street, his face bathed on sunlight. Enjolras vaguely wondered if he wasn't stewing in his leather jacket given the heat outside.

"Come to think of it, you'd make a wonderful subject for my thesis. I'd call it 'What a gloomy thing, not to know the address of one's soul', and don't even ask who wrote that because I don't have a single clue!"

Jehan didn't stay for long, as he had said, he was on lunch break and had to get back to the shop at some point. Enjolras didn't mind, he could do with a bit of quiet. Learning, or rather relearning to know these people was an exhausting endeavour. There was so much to remember that he was feeling like a high school student cramming for his exams all over again. But he was pleased to feel that he genuinely liked their presence. As though their friendship toward him was enough to rekindle his own towards them.

His head laid back, Enjolras looked at the bouquet. Most of the flowers were familiar, though he had never taken the time to learn their names. Hidden between the petals, he made out the corner of a greeting card. He stretched his arm and pulled it out. An immaculate handwriting read :

_"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves. ~Henry David Thoreau"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect this chapter to be so long but I desperately wanted to include Joly et Jehan so it just happened!  
> Also, the quote Jehan failed to attribute was Hugo's himself, gettin' a bit meta over here
> 
>  _French trivia of the day :_  
>  "espèce de grosse feignasse" : basically, "you lazy ass"  
> croissant aux amandes : a croissant filled with an almond-flavoured cream or paste (i'm french, sue me)  
> a bistrot : a very french bar&restaurant type of establishment  
> Master : french higher education is divided into three : first you have a Licence (3years) then a Master (2 years) than a Doctorat (3years). So here Enjolras has had his Licence and finished his first Master year. Still confused? [Check this](http://aei.u-pec.fr/servlet/com.univ.collaboratif.utils.LectureFichiergw?ID_FICHIER=1179909638987&ID_FICHE=126234)  
> mon coeur : sweetheart  
> Info-Com : a Licence specialized in Information and Communication  
> Fac : Faculté, the more common name for university
> 
> As ever, thank you for leaving kudos and comments and if you want to talk further you can always find me on my [tumblr](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) ;)


	3. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Here is chapter three, it was a lot longer than I expected it to be but things just kept going and details just kept flowing so I had no other choice but to add them, leading up to this massive thing that I call a chapter. Just let me know how long you like them and I'll see if I change anything or not ;)
> 
> In the meantime, happy reading! :D

After three days of lying down,Enjolrasfinally got to take a few steps around. His destinations weren't exactly exotic but at least he could reach the bathroom and the window by himself, which constituted a major improvement. His legs had not been damaged in the accident, but the lack of movement and his occasional dizziness had rendered them somewhat weak and shaky. But even though his pace was slow and cautious, being able to walk around felt like a step forward, literally and figuratively.     
    
The doctors had come earlier that day to announce that he would be good to go in the very evening.    
    
"So soon?"Enjolrashad asked. He was no doctor and had only vague memories of medical shows he had happened to flicker through.     
    
"Your chest x-rays show your lungs are recovering just fine and being stuck in a hospital bed won't make your arm heal any faster than at home," the physician had answered with a smile.    
    
The hospital was not leaving him alone in the wild, however. He was required to show up for appointments every so and so, to get his bandages changed, his stitches examined and his head checked. The doctor had exhorted him to take it easy, prescribing three weeks up to a month of rest and calm, completely dry of any alcohol or any substances and good, nutritious food. He had also advised taking a stroll down the hall to stretch his limbs, whichEnjolrashad done with an unforeseen enthusiasm.     
    
Still, the prospect of going home had left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. What was home now? Would he even fit in? What of his parents? They had not come to visit him, or if they did, he had never been made aware of it. There had not been a single mention of them, nor a letter or a card, though he had received many. He'd have to askCourfeyracandCombeferreabout it. About them. In the meantime, he tried not to let his mind wander to the wildest scenarios.    
    
Instead, he focused on preparing his departure.Courfhad left him spare clothes that he tried to put on, to no avail. So much so that he found himself in the obligation to ask a nurse for help. At least she didn't laugh at his predicament. Slipping on a shirt proved a bit technical, but nothing that could not be achieved through grunts and wiggling around. The trousers were a whole other embarrassing story on their own.    
    
"Reminds me," she said after ditching the hospital gown into a dirty laundry basket, "your stuff is still at the nurses station, let me get it for you!"    
    
She came back a few minutes later, holding a small transparent drawer that she left on the bed.Enjolrassat on the covers and took the drawer on his lap. His fingers brushed the various objects amassed into it : a wallet, keys, a phone and a few coins. He was pleased to see that he had kept the same wallet, a beautiful leather-bound thing he had bought at the beginning of high school. Inside, he found the usual : ID, student card, social-security card, loyalty cards and so on. He moved on to the phone. The screen was shattered and the case scratched beyond belief, but still worked, somehow. It lit up, the screen smiling of a hundred crooked smiles.    
    
Enjolrasstared at the lock screen, having no idea of what he was supposed to type in to unlock it. After careful consideration, he typed in his day and month of birth but it didn't seem to do the trick. "2 attempts left", read the screen in bright red letters. He took a deep breath. Ok, what would he have done? What else would he have changed the code into? To be fair, he wasn't even sure he would have been bothered to change the code at all... Maybe that was it. He typed "0000" in.    
    
"1 attempt left"    
    
Alright.Enjolrasdecided against a third attempt and put the phone back into the drawer. It was no use.    
    
He had turned the TV on to listen to the weather forecast when several people barged into the room.    
    
"We heard they're releasing you into the wild, so here we are!" said a girl who could only beEponine.    
    
Her card had not lied about her being "a small but a feisty lady", andEnjolrascould tell. What she didn't have in height, she had in aura, that of someone you didn't want to cross, though the mischievous smile she was flashing towards him felt deeply affectionate.    
    
"We're your personal chauffeurs," she continued.    
    
"Well technically _I_ am the one driving here," correctedBahorelright behind her, shaking his keys for emphasis.   
   
Enjolrasnodded in his direction whileEponinewas pulling him into a hug, the whole endeavour made awkward by his cast and bruises.Bahorelwinked his way and the both of them smiled. If his card had not stipulated "physiotherapist" as his occupation,Enjolrascould have bet he was a bouncer with his broad shoulders, beard and strong arms. And if those were details he had already spotted in the photographs, his height was a surprise. He was as tall asEponine was small, accentuating his rough looks. Rough looks that were instantly defused by a warm smile.    
    
The usual "how are you"scame pouring down on him to which he provided the usual answer that yes, he wasalright, same old same old. It's only whenEponineflung herself onto the bed and that he went to sit next to her thatEnjolrasnoticed a third party, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed against his chest.    
    
Grantairewas looking atEponinebouncing on the mattress with an amused smile, seemingly unaware of someone else's gaze fixed on him. His eyes were not longer bloodshot like the last timeEnjolrashad seen them, but they did look tired. His staring was cut short byBahorel'sdeep voice.

"Feuillysays he's sorry he couldn't come, work is getting a little crazy these days and when he's not working, the man snores at full volume."    
    
If memory served him well,FeuillywasBahorel'sboyfriend.Enjolrasespecially remembered his card for the number of jobs he occupied at a time. He was half convinced that if he were to look up "busy" in a dictionary,Feuilly'sface would illustrate the definition.    
    
"I can't believe _you're_ the one complaining about someone else's snoring volume!"Grantairelaughed, finally leaving the threshold to make his way to the table.    
    
"It was one time and rum doesn't count,"Bahorelargued.    
    
Enjolrasquirked an eyebrow.Eponinepicked up on his unvoiced question and her grin widened.     
    
"Ok, so this one time, like four months ago, we had this party at the Palace – that's how we callJoly,Bossuet,ChettaandGrantaire'splace, though I crash there half the time. We call it the Palace cause it'sfuckinghuge, but that's not the point – and we kind of all ended up drunk on rum and sleeping on the floor or whatnot and it was dead silent, about5AMandBahorellet out the biggest snore ever. I swear to god the walls were _shaking_!"    
    
"JolyandCoufflipped thefuckout,"Grantairecontinued from across the room. Though he was facingEnjolras, his gaze was fixed somewhere just above his shoulder, never on him per say. "They thought it was an earthquake. So they began to wake everyone up, panicked and all, before slapping the culprit across the face."   
   
A fit of laughter swept across the room and thoughEnjolrasdidn't partake, a genuine grin had settled on his lips. What a strange thing, to be the character of a story you have never heard before. He wondered what he had been doing at that moment, what his reaction had been, if he'll ever remember it. He tried to cast a discreet glance inGrantaire'sdirection and, for a second, their gazes crossed before the latter's lowered, unfathomable.    
    
 

* * *

  
    
At6PM,Enjolraswas granted his freedom. It had taken the shape of a waiver form he had been more than willing to sign while doctors had assigned his friends to watch him closely.    
    
"If he loses consciousness, feels abnormally dizzy or gets nauseous, you have to let us know," they had insisted.    
    
They all had nodded in earnest and soon, they had been strolling down the long corridors, leaving the hospital smell behind.    
    
Enjolrassat in the back seat ofBahorel'scar along withEponine("We've forgotten her booster seat at home,"Bahorelteased before receiving a vicious punch on the shoulder) whileGrantairerode shotgun. He couldn't help but feel relieved, being sat next to Grantairewould probably have made the journey more awkward than it needed to be.    
    
Of all the people he had met (or rather met for a second time), he was the only one acting somewhat distant towards him. Not necessarily coldly, butEnjolrasdid feel like a wall had been built between them. The problem was, he didn't know whether this wall was a typical feature of their relationship or a more recent one. Nor did he know who had cemented the first brick and why. He was all the more confused looking back on his earliest memory ofGrantaire, with his soft tone and smile, the touch of his hand on his shoulder, still lingering on his skin. A whole other person.    
    
"So you all live in Belleville, then?"Enjolrasfound himself asking as an attempt to chaseGrantaire'sattitude out of his mind.    
    
"We tried to get closer, yeah," saidBahorel, one hand on the wheel as the other was hanging out the open window. "The Palace is like two blocks away from your flat and we, that'sFeuillyand me, are in lePré-Saint-Gervais, so that'salrightdistance-wise."    
    
"I used to live in the Palace but the place got a bit too cramped for me,"Eponineadded. "So whenJehandug up a nice flat rue du Soleil, I tagged along."    
    
"She still kicks me out of bed five days a week,"Grantaire commented, his legs casually stretched on the dashboard.    
    
"And then there'sCosette, who lives with her dad above the family's bakery and finallyMariuswho's just a bit further down the street," concludedBahorel. "Did I lose you anywhere? Cause I can recap again if you want."    
    
Enjolrasassured him that he had memorised everything, summing the whole thing up out loud.    
    
The journey didn't last long; thehôpitalTenon was a little under 15 minutes away from their destination, 20 if the traffic proved to be particularly hairy. It was just enough forEnjolrasto take the hang of his surroundings. Paris had not changed that much in four years, at least she had remained as beautiful as he remembered her. If he was subjected to time, she was forever timeless, just how he liked it.    
    
They parked in the underground car park beneath his building. From the corner of his eye, he could seeEponine'sgaze fixed on him as they drove past it, as though its sight should have triggered something in his brain. But nothing came. It was just an apartment building like any other, at least for him. A well situated one, but still. They hopped into the lift andGrantairepressed the big "3" on the panel.    
    
The second the lift's door opened, a roar of muffled voices resounded throughout the third floor.Enjolrascast an inquiring look atBahorelbut the latter just winked and led the way towards the right door. The roar got louder and louder as his steps closed the gap between himself and the flat and he had a clear idea of what (or rather who) was waiting for him behind it. He braced himself for the noise whenEponineput her hand on the door knob.    
    
Which, eventually, turned out to be an excellent decision.    
    
"SURPRIIIIIIISE!"    
    
A deafening clamour rose from the cramped room, decibels and decibels of cheers thatEnjolrashad a hard time believing was meant for him. They were all here, a good baker's dozen, all of their now familiar faces smiling and laughing, a lot more lively than they had been in the photographs. Above their heads, a big banner hanging from the ceiling read "WELCOME HOME, E" in blue, white and red letters. And it did feel like home.    
    
He soon found himself receiving tight embraces fromMusichettaand Cosette, the both of them commenting on how well he looked.Mariuscame up to him as well, giving him a considerably more awkward hug and a shy smile.    
    
"It's good to see you,Enjolras."    
    
"And it's good to finally meet you,Marius," he smiled, which made the other beam in delight.    
    
Each and everyone came up to him, shaking his hand asking him how he was. In a way, he felt like he was at a family reunion, visiting some distant relatives whom he had very limited knowledge about. But they were family nonetheless.    
    
Jolyhold him out a full champagne flute with a smile while Courfeyracwrapped his arm around his shoulders.    
    
"I thought I wasn't supposed to drink alcohol,"Enjolrassaid, confused.    
    
"We know, silly. It's justChampomy."    
    
They clinked glasses and he took a sip out of his own, glad to have something else to drink than tap water.   
   
"Happy to see you again in one piece,gros!" a voice said on his right.   
   
Feuillypatted his cheek and raised his own glass with a wide grin.    
   
"Sorry I couldn't make it to the hospital, work got a bit overwhelming this week."   
   
Taking a closer look,Enjolrasnoticed his tired eyes and wayward strands of ginger hair sticking out of the man's head. He clearly didn't have the time to even care about those things, let alone stopping  by the hospital.   
   
"Oh, no, sure, no problem at all! Actually, I find it quite impressive that you made it here right now! I wouldn't want to keep you from anything..."   
   
"No, don't worry about it,"Feuillyscowled. "My next shift begins in four hours, there's plenty of time!"   
   
Enjolrascould not have pinpointed why, putFeuillyinspired him a deep feeling of admiration as they went on to talk about his various jobs, one at an animal shelter, another at aDYIstore and a third as a bartender at what appeared to be the group's to-go bar.    
   
"I only take on that many jobs during the summer, though," he clarified. "Otherwise my studies would be out the window in no time, so during the school year I onlybartend."   
   
"You're in a Geography and Geopolitics Master, right? I'd love to hear about that!"   
   
"Sure, no problem! I'm sureBahorelwould be delighted to have me rant about that stuff to somebody else!"   
   
"What about me?"Bahorelshouted from the other side of the room.   
   
He had been busy laughing about god knows what withJehan,GrantaireandEponineby the window, but his ears had clearly picked up the mention of his name. Turning his head,Enjolras's gaze lingered on the armGrantairehad wrapped aroundEponine's waist and the complicity radiating from them before realising he was staring.   
   
"Nothing, I'm just tellingEnjolrasyou won't have to hear me talk about Poland's geology anymore since he's here now!"   
   
"Damn right!"Bahorellaughed, raising his glass as to drink to this particularly happy prospect.   
   
"Glad to see you put my flashcards good use!"Courfeyracchuckled, finishing his champagne in one go. "That's one great idea I had there!"   
   
"Yes it was, although you did forget to mentionEponineand Grantaireare together."   
   
Courfeyracfurrowed his brow, confused. He cast a rapid glance at Jolyand Feuillyto see if they knew what he was talking about, but they didn't seem to get it either.Enjolrasnodded towards the couple just at the momentGrantairewas leaving a kiss onEponine'stemple, as to prove his point.Courfblinked.   
   
"Well there's only one way to find out," he stated, before shouting at the top of his lungs, killingEnjolras'sear in the process. "HEY, R, ARE YOU TWO ROCKING IT IN THE SHEETS OR NOT?"   
   
Conversations went silent as the whole room turned towards them. Eponineflashed a smirk atGrantaire, pinching his cheek.   
   
"Are you kidding, I'm way out of his league!"   
   
"Don't worrychérie, you couldn't handle me in bed anyway," Grantairesnorted in return, shooing her hand with a small slap. "Why?"   
   
Already, the chatter had resumed,Combeferrepicking his rant about birds of prey withBossuetwhere he had left it off while Cosette,MariusandMusichettabusied themselves eating candy from the makeshift buffet that was the coffee table.   
   
"Nah nothing,Enjolrasjust got confused,"Courfeyracshrugged.   
   
Enjolrasfelt a blush creeping up his cheeks and he diverted his eyes towards something that wasn'tGrantairefrowning at him. What an absolute idiot he was! For a second, he forgot his drink was sparkling applejusand downed the whole thing in one gulp as to drown his embarrassment.   
   
Fortunately, the conversation drifted on the government's decision to reorganise the country's regions, a subject that was interesting enough forEnjolrasto put his awkwardness aside. He was hardly up to date with France's political and economic situation and was more than eager to be brought up to speed. BetweenFeuilly's geographical knowledge andCourfeyrac'sexplanations, he was feeling like a fish in the water. He had begun to dismantle the economic arguments of the reform with manifest fervour when he noticed his friends' smiles.   
   
"What?"   
   
"Nothing it's just... It's really good to see you, is all,"Jolybeamed.   
   
"ToEnjolras!",Courfeyracexclaimed, raising his glass above his head to lead his sudden toast.   
   
"ToEnjolras!" , everyone else followed.   
 

* * *

  
   
The party had been going on for two hours beforeCombeferreand Jolybegan to insist thatEnjolrasneeded some rest after all that agitation. Not that the celebrations had been particularly wild, except for the momentBossuethad tried to open yet another bottle of champagne, ending up pouring half its content on himself and Grantaire. The unexpected bubbly shower had left them soaking wet, givingEponinethe opportunity to snap away at what she called an "bourgeois wett-shirt contest", though her hilarity had been cut short byCombeferrelending them dry clothes.    
   
"It was cheap ass champagne anyway,"Jehanhad confessed to FeuillyandEnjolras.   
   
The flat felt awfully empty once everybody had left. The laughs had been replaced by the sound of the dishesCourfeyracwas washing in the kitchen and though they had started to give him a headache, Enjolrasmissed them. It was as though this space had not been made just to house the three of them but the whole gang.    
   
"Come, I'll show you your room."   
   
He followedCombeferrein a corridor and immediately noticed the perfect replica of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen stuck on one of the doors.   
   
"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that's my room?"   
   
"I wonder what gave it away,"Ferrelaughed, pushing the door open.   
   
Enjolrashad never found himself very gifted for interior design, he would have been contented with a bare wall and a bed. But that was nowhere near what he found. Blue painted walls had been covered in photographs and drawings, creating a 360° fresco of faces. Only a small corner had been spared and was sporting a proud French flag just above the bed's headrest. Books were piling up on a couple of shelves and a desk was facing the window that bathed the room in the evening light.   
   
Enjolrasgaped at the sight whileCombeferresmiled at his reaction. It took a few seconds before he managed to overcome his surprise and took a stepforeward, looking at the pictures. Just in front of him, a photograph showedCourfeyracandCombeferrekissing hand in hand ahead of a crowed of people making outraged faces.    
   
"It was during laManifpourTous,"Ferreexplained and, seeingEnjolras'slost expression, he added : "They were the ones manifesting against same-sex marriage at the time, so we thought kissing in front of them would be a giant 'fuckyou'. Plus I really like that picture."   
   
Enjolrasnodded. The tenderness inFerre'saccount was nearly palpable. He had loved kissing his boyfriend in front of a bigoted mob and he could tell just by listening to him.   
   
"And what did I do to flip them off?"   
   
Ferresniggered.   
   
"Well at first you tried to piss them off by kissingJehanbut apparently they were a bit confused by his gender so you redoubled the efforts and made out withBahorelinstead, just to be sure."   
   
"Anything for the cause," he laughed.   
   
He saw himself in other pictures, a megaphone in hand during this or that demonstration,Jolywith his fist in the air and a fierce expression he had never seen him sport before,Mariusardently singing protest songs or evenGrantaireholding a sign reading "MêmeGollumaeudroitàsonanneau". He could have gone on for hours just watching each and everyone of them.   
   
"Do you want to call it a day or is there a little bit of energy left that you want to waste with us tonight?"Ferreask after a while of contemplation.   
   
"Sure!"   
   
"Good, becauseCourfwon't rest until you watch Frozen with him!"   
   
 

* * *

  
   
That night,Enjolrastossed and turned, unable to find sleep. His brain was just refusing to switch off, even for a second. He was either thirsty or too hot, in a bad position or tangled in his sheets. The mattress wasn't to blame, though, it was significantly more comfortable than the hospital's.   
   
The alarm clock read2AMin bright red digital letters.Enjolrassighed and admitted defeat. He would not fall asleep, at least not here. He got out of bed, rubbing his eyes, and, as discreetly as he could manage, tiptoed down the corridor to get to the living room.    
   
The quilt they had used while watching that Disney movie was still on the couch, crumpled as could be after the three of them had wiggled beneath it. He tossed it on the floor before lying down on the cushions. Deep breaths, he thought, deep breaths are the key. His hand slithered between the cushions in a quest for a cold spot. Instead, his fingers closed on an unexpected piece of fabric.   
   
He furrowed and tugged it out. The light was too dim to make out what it was but it felt like a cloth or a piece of clothing that had been lost down there. But it had the qualityEnjolrashad been looking for : coolness. He patted it into the shape of a makeshift pillow and rested his head on it. As  he nuzzled against it, he noticed it. Its scent. It smelt... good, comforting even. He didn't know what it was or what it even smelt like but he relaxed against the fabric, as though coaxed into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  Champomy : the ultimare fancy party drink for children which is sparkling apple jus  
> gros : literally means "fat" but it's a popular term of endearment between good friends, just like "dude" or "mate"  
> chérie : darling  
> Même Gollum a eu droit à son anneau : ["even Gollum had a ring"](http://citizenpost.fr/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/tumblr_mhb2qbJbEo1s4yh43o1_500.jpg) was an epic slogan during the French same-sex marriage demonstrations  
> The idea for the picture of Courf and Ferre kissing in front of anti same-sex marriage activist is directly inspired from [real life women who did this](http://media.rtl.fr/cache/-XlfNs_Rzswm8waeYRY5dQ/795v530-0/online/image/2014/1006/7774695673_deux-femmes-s-embrassent-devant-des-manifestants-anti-mariage-homosexuel-a-marseille-en-2012-illustration.jpg) in Marseilles
> 
> As ever your feedback is always appreciated and would make my day! Thank you so much for reading and I'll be seeing you next chapter or on tumblr at just-french-me-up if you want to say hi ;)


	4. By the Seine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you all and thank you for sticking with me! And thank you also for commenting and sharing your thoughts, they always keep me going!  
> Come on, no more small talk, let's get this party going shall we?

Combeferre had always been light on his feet in spite of his height. This particularity often proved to be useful, especially during Halloween when he would prank Courfeyrac and Enjolras with jumpscares the two would never see coming. But it wasn't Combeferre's footsteps that stirred Enjolras out of slumber, nor the faint clinking of the dishes in the kitchen. No, it was the smell of coffee that roused him.

His sleepy eyes fluttered for while before getting used to the morning light filtering through the windows. Eventually, they fell on the steaming mug responsible for his sudden consciousness. It was about four inches away from his face, on the coffee table. Right next to it, Enjolras made out the shape of a leg wrapped in jeans and his gaze followed it all the way up to Combeferre's face. The latter was smiling, his own cup already to his lips.

"Morning, Enj'," he trumpeted.

"Morning, Ferre," Enjolras replied in a drowsy mumble, rubbing his eyes with his good hand.

Combeferre was already dressed and ready to go, the strap of his bag firmly hugging his shoulder. Enjolras sat up on the couch, letting out a long yawn that he didn't even bother to cover up. After all, and even through he didn't retain any memory of it, they had been roommates for four years, Combeferre had probably seen way worse than his molars.

"What time is it?"

His friend took a quick glance at his watch.

"Half past eight. Slept alright?"

Enjolras nodded and cradled the hot mug against his chest, filling his lungs with its aroma and steam. It was one of life's small pleasures. The smell of coffee in the morning. A hot shower after an exhausting day. A thunderstorm in the middle of a stifling summer's afternoon. The feeling of comfort brought a smile to his lips and he took a sip to revel in it a bit more.

"You're going to the hospital?" he asked as Combeferre was lacing his shoes.

"Yup, my shift starts at nine."

"And Couf?"

"Oh he'll be up in a minute. Or at least his body will. His brain takes a bit longer to catch up."

And indeed, Enjolras spotted the sluggish figure of Courfeyrac from the corner of his eye, his arms hanging lethargically against his sides and his eyes struggling against the sunlight. He walked, or rather dragged himself past them to disappear in the kitchen, not without uttering a dopey " 'ning" on the way. Enjolras and Combeferre shared an amused look as the latter was making sure he had everything in his bag before taking off. A second later, Courfeyrac reappeared, a banana in one hand and a bowl of cereals in the other. His heavy steps led him straight to Ferre and he shoved the banana right into his boyfriend's hands before grabbing his collar limply to pull him into a kiss.

Enjolras couldn't help but to be fascinated by the sight. He was used to Combeferre and Courfeyrac being friends, best friends. He was used to their teasing and dubious flirting but that was nowhere near the sheer loving affection he was witnessing at that very moment. It was weird, but in a good way. He had heard enough of their pining for one another in high school to know it was a long overdue anyway.

Combeferre left the flat shortly after and Courfeyrac slumped on the couch next to Enjolras.

"That punk always forgets breakfast," he groaned, picking his own bowl off the coffee table.

The sight of food seemed to wake Enjolras's stomach up because it growled angrily at its own emptiness. Courfeyrac patted his friend's abdomen.

"Shhh, there there," he yawned before gulping a spoonful of cereals. "I'll show you the breakfast cupboard before your stomach decides to feast on itself."

The breakfast cupboard ought to be renamed the breakfast pantry.

It was stuffed with cereal boxes, brioches, pains au lait, unopened orange juice cartons and more than Enjolras could even make out. He set his heart on the packet of pains au lait and took it out. Courfeyrac had already poured him a glass of milk and taken a jar of strawberry jam out of the fridge when he turned around.

"So I guess I've been eating the same breakfast since high school then," Enjolras mused while Courfeyrac held a knife out to him.

Once the pains au lait had been stuffed with jam, the both of them made their way back to the couch. Courf wrapped himself in the blanket, creating a strange woolly cocoon that only left his head and arms visible, and turned the TV on. The SpongeBob theme song filled the living room. Breakfast was spent watching silly cartoons they both knew by heart and discussing Courfeyrac's dreams ("Dude, I _swear_ , the métro line was passing just through the bedroom! A guy waved at me from a coach and I was sat right on the bed, Ferre sleeping next to me!"). It exuded such a feeling of normality that Enjolras could almost see himself having done this for four years. And he would have gladly stayed like this for hours if his best friend did not have somewhere else to be. Pressed by the time Courfeyrac had jumped into the shower and slipped on whatever clothes he could scavenge from his drawers. His shift was starting at 10 and though the bistrot was just down the street, there was a high probability he wouldn't make it in due time. Not that he really minded, because "the cool kids never arrive on time, do they?".

"I was thinking," he said, a bit out of breath from looking for his shoe's sister, "maybe you'd like to take a look at the ABC blog!"

"Sure!" Enjolras exclaimed with enthusiasm.

He had heard so much about it in the past few days that he had grown extremely curious about it. Bossuet had even called it his "baby" while they were talking about it yesterday. "Your words, not mine," he had added. And they weren't many things Enjolras called his baby.

"You can use my laptop if you want," Courf continued. "Yours has a password on it so it could be a bit tricky to log in."

He scribbled an address on a post-it left on the coffee table and gave it to Enjolras.

"Thanks! Courf, your shift starts in five minutes.."

"Shit! I also wrote down my number, eh, so if you need anything, a-ny-thing, you call me, alright? And I mean anything, I'm here to serv.."

"Oh my God, GO!"

The door slammed on his way out, leaving Enjolras alone in the flat. The latter went to put the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, only to realise that one hand wasn't enough to do the washing-up. There was a lot one hand wasn't enough for, now that he was thinking about it. Taking a shower proved to be an ordeal, as he ought to slip on a plastic protection over his cast to keep the water from trickling into it. Getting dressed also resulted in an awkward dance and he settled for a t-shirt rather than a shirt as he had nowhere near enough patience to button it up. The whole thing took him about an hour, after what he went for Courfeyrac's laptop.

Les Amis de l'ABC was fascinating. Not only because it covered a wide range of subjects and issues with witty and well-written articles but also because it was like looking at himself in the mirror. His past self was staring back at him through words and fervent lines, the reflection of who he had been and had yet to become, when his memory would kick in. Enjolras learnt about the 2012 presidential elections, the Toulouse and Montauban shootings, Ferguson, the Charlie Hebdo shooting and a myriad of other events he had no idea had occured.

He was still absorbed in his readings when Courfeyrac came back, slamming the door behind him once more.

"Did you forget anything?" he asked, confused, a article about the situation in Ukraine displayed on the screen.

Courfeyrac furrowed.

"No..? My shift's over."

"What? You left like an hour ago!"

Courfeyrac's glance went from Enjolras to the laptop and vice versa before a large grin settled on his lips.

"I see you've found the blog! It's brilliant, eh?"

Enjolras nodded, dumbfounded. He had been reading for two hours straight. Two hours! For what had felt like ten minutes! He closed the laptop and put it onto the coffee table, reckoning that he probably had enough for the day. He wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea that time could fly without him noticing.  

In the meantime, Courfeyrac had rushed to the kitchen. The sound the cupboards being opened and closed echoed in the living room before he came back in his field of vision.

"Ok so, bad news : the cupboards and the fridge are empty but good news : I'm taking you out for lunch!"

* * *

The weather was fairly hot, even for the season, so the two of them ended up on a terrace in the 11th Arrondissement, Courfeyrac munching on his beef and goat cheese burger and Enjolras battling against the leaves of his salade Landaise. At least everything else had been nicely bite-sized so that he didn't have to use a knife. They then set on taking a little walk by the Seine, but not even ten minutes in and Courfeyrac had already spotted a glacier's shop and stopped.

"Homemade ice-cream," he pleaded, "we're supporting the local ice-cream makers' economy!"

That argument was enough to win Enjolras over. After an intense interior debate, Courfeyrac chose two scoops of "bimbo" ice-cream - which looked like someone had accidentally dropped a handful of confetti into a vanilla ice-cream container - while Enjolras settled for a single scoop of passion fruit sorbet. They sat on a bench nearby, their gaze either lost towards the other bank of the Seine or contemplating their dessert. Courfeyrac was talking about weird costumers he had served earlier but Enjolras's mind was elsewhere. There was a question that had been weighing on his shoulders for a couple of days now and he was sourly in need of an answer. He waited for his best friend to be finished before asking, somewhat tentatively :

"Courf, can I ask you a question?"  

Courfeyrac quirked an eyebrow, visibly taken aback by the earnestness of his tone.

"Jeez, that sounds serious."

"What happened with my parents?"

Any trace of humour left on his friend's smile disappeared at once to be replaced by a compassionate expression. Enjolras felt a ball of anxiety growing inside his throat; whatever he was about to hear, it wasn't good news.

"You and your dad had a falling-out, a while back. We were in L2 and you went home for Christmas and when you came back, you broke all ties with him. You never really explained, but we've always kind of known your relationship was pretty tense."

Enjolras listened and nodded slowly. Deep down, he had always known it was bound to happen, one day or the other. And he'd rather hear this than to learn that his parents had passed away in some freak accident or whatnot.

"Your mom still writes sometimes, though," Courfeyrac continued. "She credits your bank account a bit too. They moved to Deauville a year ago, or at least that's what she told me when I called..."

"You called my mother?" Enjolras mumbled.

Courfeyrac blinked before widening his sympathetic smile. He gave him a small tap on the shoulder.

"Of course I called! You were playing Sleepy Beauty in a hospital room!"

Fair enough, Enjolras thought. He felt a pang in his heart, still. His mother was nowhere near perfect but she had always been the best out of his two parents. How sad she must have been when he had left for good... He wondered if they still called each other from time to time, or wrote even. He hoped they did.

"It took a bit of investigation, though," Courfeyrac continued. "I may or may not have hacked their bank account to get their number. Don't tell Ferre, though, I told him I got it totally legally."

"Only if you give me the damn number," Enjolras smiled.

"Deal."

He rolled his arm around Enjolras's shoulder and nudged him. A quick look at their melting ice-cream was enough to urge them to eat. It would have been a shame to waste authentic french savoir-faire.

"Is Grantaire my friend?" Enjolras eventually asked, out of the blue.

Courfeyrac furrowed.

"... Yes? I mean you guys had your differences in the past, for sure, but you ended up burying the hatchet at some point."

"What differences?"

He sighed as though he didn't know where to begin.

"R is... well, R. He's a lot less idealistic than the rest of us, a lot less idealistic than _you_ so you clashed a lot at the beginning."

Enjolras tried to remember the ABC blog and all the articles he had read earlier with their author's signature. He had seen Eponine's, Combeferre's, Feuilly's, Bossuet's and many more but never Grantaire's. Not a single article. And if the ABC's goal was to spread ideas and opinions in hopes to make the world a better place, what was his part in it? That guy doesn't add up, he thought. And if there was something Enjolras liked, it was things that made sense.

"But I thought you were past that, no? Did he do something?"

"It's not so much something he did," Enjolras shrugged. "Well, yes, it is, but I don't know he feels... offish."

"He does? That's weird."

Courfeyrac stared at the Seine, deep in thoughts while Enjolras was rerunning all of his memories of Grantaire in his mind. His face when the doctor had talked to him, the way he left at the hospital right after that, the side glances Enjolras had felt during the party...

"We all cope differently," Courf sighed. "Maybe it's his way to deal with what happened to you."

Enjolras could think of a million of better ways to cope but he guessed he didn't have a say in other people's feelings.

"I mean, the guy was a wreck at the hospital, we all were. He kept asking the nurses if they had heard something new about you. He even insisted to spend the night at the hospital on behalf of all of us because we had work in the morning. I don't know about you but that sounds a lot like a friend to me."

This puzzle of a man was keeping Enjolras's mind spinning on itself. Who was he, dammit? The caring friend he had caught a vague glimpse of or the passive bystander who couldn't look at him in the eyes?  And he thought he had identity issues! He thought it best to leave Grantaire's case aside for now. He had the feeling that if if he got too into it, it would only result in a splitting headache.

"And how do _you_ cope?" he inquired.

Courfeyrac looked at him, hesitant at first, as thought he was weighing the pros and cons of telling the truth. The pros apparently tipped the scale in their favour, lifting the corners of Courf's mouth into a sad smile.

"I was a crying mess at the hospital, man. I had managed to hold it all in the car but the moment I set foot in the ER I just... collapsed. Ferre's shirt was drenched."

Enjolras diverted his gaze, slapped by a feeling a guilt he hadn't expected. He knew it wasn't his fault, that he had never wanted for this to happen and still, the guilt was crippling.

"I've never felt so useless in my life," Courf continued. "You were there and I was there but there wasn't a damn thing I could do to help. It was terrifying!"

"I'm so sorry..." Enjolras whispered, rubbing his hand on Courfeyrac's back to comfort him.

His apology was met with a small laugh.

"Just... be more careful before crossing the street alright?"

"Alright."

"Anyway!" Courfeyrac sniffed before putting on a more cheerful grin.

He hopped off the bench and offered Enjolras his hand to help him up.

"We have cupboards to fill up, remember? That means we need to hit the grocery store!"  

* * *

It had started to rain a little during the métro ride to Belleville. Usually, Enjolras didn't mind the rain, on the contrary, Paris was beautiful when she was painted in watercolour, but for once he felt... irritated. And it was all the more so annoying that he couldn't understand _why_. He put it down to his lack of proper rest and buried his hands in his pockets.

"Dude, are you alright?" Courfeyrac asked, trying to cover up his concern with a light tone.

"Yeah, yeah."

They went into the first Carrefour on their way home. Courfeyrac did most of the cart filling, though he'd always ask Enjolras for his approval. The latter did refuse to buy peaches from Morocco and canned green beans from Madagascar in favour of more local produces, though. From what he came to understand, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac had skipped grocery shopping since his hospitalisation, hence the empty cupboards.

"We had better things to think about," Courf explained.

Once the cart full, they joined the checkout line. Enjolras cast a glance through the store's windows, in hopes that the rain had stopped in the meantime, only to see the fleeting silhouette of a familiar face. He nudged his friend.

"Isn't that Jehan?"

Courfeyrac, busy looking at the candies on display, raised his head in the direction Enjolras had indicated. A scowl quickly settled on his features.

"Mmmh, yeah," he answered, noncommittally.

Enjolras looked at him, confused. He didn't remember them being in bad terms, at least not from what he had seen yesterday.

"He's hanging out with Montparnasse," the other offered.

Given the way Courf had spat out the name, Enjolras guessed he didn't hold him dear in his heart. He looked back through the windows and noticed Jehan's companion, though they were now too far away for him to take a proper look at him. There was no flashcard bearing Montparnasse's name in his pile, that was for sure.

"That guy is bad news. He's into some shady shit. Ponine used to sleep with him and I don't know what's happening with Jehan but I don't like it."

"But aren't Eponine and Jehan roommates?" Enjolras mused.

"Yes, sir! Look, they're old enough to handle their own business, I know, but if something happens because of that _douche_.."

A mother turned around to give them a death stare, probably because of their language, cutting the discussion short. Enjolras helped to unload and reload the cart as best as he could as they progressed in the line. He took another look at the weather as Courfeyrac was paying for the groceries.

To his great dismay, the rain was still pouring down. The blasted rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  Pain au lait : basically, brioche without all the butter, [check it out](http://cdn.french-supermarket.com/9-large/10-pains-au-lait-pasquier.jpg)  
> 11th Arrondissement : a part of Paris where the Seine flows  
> Bimbo ice-cream : it's an [ actual thing](http://www.glacesdesalpes.com/fiche_produit.php?produit=10)that exists and it has Courf's name written all over it  
> Carrefour : a french supermarket chain
> 
> Mmh mmh now what's the deal with Grantaire, eh? I'll let you ponder on that question until next time ;) In the meantime, your feedback is literally free fuel for an author so don't hesitate if you have something to say! I can also be found at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi! :D


	5. Video Game Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!  
> That chapter took a while to write for a good reason : I got back to uni and this year is very VERY demanding. BUT I'll do my best to keep updating the fic as often as possible because let's be real here, there's no way in hell I'm not finishing this baby right there. So fear not, the chapter will be a bit spaced (not too much, hopefully) but all things come to those who wait ;)  
> As ever, thank you so much for your support, comments and kudos, they really keep me going and I'm forever glad to have you on this ride with me!  
> So without further do, chapter 5!

The week passed incredibly quickly. When Enjolras was not busy sleeping or lying down on the couch in front of the TV, someone would always be there to keep him company. Most of the time, his companions were his very roommates. Courfeyrac had taken on the responsibility to make his life as comfortable as possible, too comfortable, even. It mainly consisted of patting his pillows and feeding him hot cocoa, so much so that after a while, Enjolras began to feel sick at the mere smell of chocolate. But he didn't tell Courfeyrac; he couldn't bring himself to upset his friend's enthusiasm and he knew of his need to be useful. So he would indulge him and pretend to drink the cocoa, while Combeferre emptied the mug himself in secret.

Combeferre was not fussing over his every need but rather providing intellectual stimulation. When he wasn't at the hospital, he would be reading various articles and facts about amnesia and report them back to Enjolras. It fascinated him, the possibility that the human brain had a "reset" button you could press, given that you pushed at the right spot and hard enough. The cases he'd talk about were always happy ones, those of people who had recovered their memories and lived happily ever after. Enjolras suspected those were not the only ones, but he never asked. Hearing about them would be no use, anyway.

Friends would come and go to check on him. Sometimes it would be Eponine and Cosette, showing him more photographs and sharing more stories, always coming up with new ones. Other times it would be Jehan, bringing him books to read, mostly philosophy and Romantic poetry. Or even Bahorel and Marius, bringing their DVDs with them for an improvised movie night. From what Enjolras had gathered, Marius was more of a arthouse films and romantic comedies kind of guy while Bahorel was a sucker for explosions and laughable b-grade movies but they always agreed to watch Back to the Future. Which was why they ended up watching the trilogy twice that week.

Enjolras was playing cards with Bossuet (and annihilating him in the process) on Friday afternoon when the latter suggested :

"We're having a video game night with Bahorel and Feuilly tomorrow, you're in?"

He had to admit the idea was more than tempting. He loved the flat, for sure, but he had seen enough of it for a lifetime. Going somewhere new would be like a breath of fresh air. Not only that, but Enjolras reckoned that Combeferre and Courfeyrac deserved some alone time. He had been the centre of attention all week, giving them little time for each other. Not that either of them would ever admit to it.

There was still a slight inconvenient to Bossuet's offer, though.

"I'm not exactly the most dexterous person these days," Enjolras pointed out, waving his cast.

Jehan and Musichetta had undertaken the task to decorate it a couple of days ago, leaving it peppered with various sharpie flowers and leaves.

"There're the only things I can draw," Jehan had sighed after finishing a highly detailed daisy on his wrist. "You'll have to ask Grantaire if you want anything else."

Enjolras had nodded with a smile, keeping to myself that he was light years away from actually asking Grantaire anything.

"Don't worry about it," Bossuet laughed. "I've had more casts than I care to count and I've always managed. You just got to get the hang of it."

What he didn't seem to get the hang of, however, was the game at hand; his deck was getting smaller and smaller by the minute while Enjolras's was getting bigger one card at a time. The latter even wondered if Bossuet was letting him win on purpose.

"Plus, Feuilly misses your mug."

Enjolras didn't know if that last bit had been added to win him over or was genuine but it hit home nonetheless. They had not seen each other since his welcome home party and he felt a significant lack of Feuilly in his life. Not that he blamed the man, but there were a lot of topics he wanted to talk about with him. Their last discussion had been cut short by Bossuet himself pouring champagne all over the place.

"Well I wanted to _spare_ you the humiliation of getting wreck by a cripple but since you insist.." Enjolras smirked.

His adversary raised an eyebrow.

"Dude, I'm literally getting wrecked _right here right now_!"

Courfeyrac got home a little later to find a victorious Enjolras and Bossuet calling for a new game with a new deck, the pair sat on the floor, cards scattered all over it. Unphased, he went to sat with them and distributed the cards into three decks.

"Brace yourselves, gents, they don't call me Cardfeyrac for nothing!"

"... Who even calls you that?"

Unfortunately for Cardfeyrac, Bossuet's luck had turned in his favour, leaving the self proclaimed king of card games without a deck to play with. And, of course, this called for a new game and so on.

"Staying tonight, Lesgle? Joly and Ferre are having a Docteur Maboul showdown later," Courfeyrac asked.

Bossuet shook his head, his attention firmly focused on the game.

"Nah, I can't. I'm having drinks with Grantaire and Bahorel tonight. We're celebrating my very recent layoff," he answered, matter-of-factly.

"Your WHAT?!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, letting all of his cards drop on the floor.

Bossuet getting fired from summer jobs wasn't a rare occurrence, at least from what Enjolras had understood, but Courfeyrac still insisted on insulting his former employers rather vehemently. Bossuet merely shrugged.

"It's ok I guess, I'll find something else eventually. Feuilly told me he'd talk to some people for me."

They agreed on an hour on which Bossuet would pick Enjolras up for the video game night, keeping in mind Bossuet's more than likely hangover and his general absent-mindedness. For good measure, he set up three different alarms on his phone, the ringtones ranging from calm to apocalyptic. Courfeyrac offered to come as well, but Enjolras kindly suggested that a night alone with Combeferre was long overdue. He sometimes felt like their new born child, a fragile thing they felt responsible for. Now that he was given the opportunity to leave the nest, it wasn't to bring his mother hen along.

"You're just trying to avoid the competition," Courfeyrac sneered.

Enjolras's gaze crossed Bossuet's and his smile left no doubt as to Courf's actual lack of gaming skills. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing and gathered the cards.

* * *

The flat was eerily quiet, the following evening. Combeferre had taken Courfeyrac out to see whatever movie the latter had been waiting to see for a while, leaving the flat all to Enjolras. He had grown used to the faint buzz of life inhabiting these walls ; the mumbled tune of Courfeyrac singing to himself, Combeferre's voice as he was reading out loud without even noticing, their steps on the parquet floor and their laughter filling the whole place. Without them it felt... empty, less homely.

He used the time he had left before Bossuet's arrival to tidy things up in his room. Clothes had been piling up in a corner and various books had been scattered on the floor. The only area left untouched was the desk where sat his phone and laptop, still irremediably locked and unusable. He put away half of the clothes into the dirty laundry basket and undertook to fold the rest. It didn't last long, though. No matter how carefully he approached the task, it always resulted in a crumpled mess. He gave up, leaving balled up clothes on the duvet and made the bed instead,something that he had not been bothered enough to do all week. The green t-shirt he had elected as his wubby was still there, under the covers. He had not been able to sleep without it since he had found it in the depths of the couch, which, he thought, was mildly irritating for a grown up man. But since everyone loved to repeat how important it was for him to rest, the wubby had stayed. He had just carefully avoided talking about it to either Courfeyrac or Combeferre. Or anyone for that matter.

Enjolras just had the time to stick it under the pillow before the intercom buzzed.

"Right on time!"  he congratulated Bossuet from the other end of the line. "I'll be right down!"

It was still sunny outside, none of that rain crap they had gone through all week, keeping them inside. Bossuet was waiting for him next to the intercom, his usual warm grin lighting up his face.

"Well you don't look too smashed after last night," Enjolras remarked after a small tap on the shoulder.

It was funny how easily these little gestures came to him now. Like reflexes. He knew Musichetta liked four kisses on her cheeks while Cosette preferred two, he would always nudge Bahorel's sides when the latter would make a terrible joke or rest his hand on Joly's shoulders. Muscle memory, he thought. At least he still had that.

"Nah, it was alright, I left early, Joly wanted to celebrate his victory over Ferre. I left R and Bahorel to drink on my behalf."

They went into the first métro entrance on their way and took line 11 for Le Pré Saint-Gervais. They had avoided the rush hour in the sole purpose to get seats, however uncomfortable those seats were.

"Did Feuilly find anything for you yet?" Enjolras asked.

"He's spoken to a few people, yeah. Apparently there's a restaurant that needs a washer-up down in Avenue de la République. I'll try my luck on Monday."

His enthusiastic tone clashed with the frown that had settled on Enjolras's features. Bossuet was a student in humanitarian law, dammit, he deserved more than an underpaid job scraping dried egg yolk off dirty dishes!

"It doesn't bother you?"

"What? Washing dishes? Nah, I'm alright with it. And with my luck, I'll probably break enough of that fine china to get fired all over again in a week, don't worry," he laughed.

Enjolras smiled. He would have thought someone with so little luck would have turned bitter and resigned over the years. And yet here he was, sitting next to the unluckiest and yet the most hopeful person he knew.

"How many mirrors did you even break?" he teased.

Bossuet rested his head on the coach's window, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as though he could see the whole evening sky unfold in spite of the concrete separating them from the open air.

"The thing is, I have too much luck, man," he said, in a peaceful tone Enjolras had never heard him use before. "I've been blessed with so many good people, and been loved so much that the universe has to balance it out, somehow."

* * *

 For some reason, "Bahorel and Feuilly's" had always been a flat in Enjolras's mind. I had pictured it small, smaller than his own, on the last floor of a red brick apartment building. So when Bossuet stopped in front of a small, yet cosy-looking house, Enjolras's preconceived ideas went down the drain. His friend's halt had been so unexpected that they bumped into each other. A picket fence and a tiny front garden was also not what he had pictured to be Bahorel's style but obviously he had been wrong from start to finish.

Bossuet pushed the fence gate, Enjolras right behind him, and rang the doorbell. Almost immediately, heavy footsteps rushed to the door. No, not footsteps... The yapping of a dog echoed through the door, calling either one of its masters. Feuilly eventually appeared, the dog on his trail. If you could call that a dog. It looked more like a gigantic woofing pile of hair than an actual animal. It took advantage of the sudden opening to bolt outside, roaming about the visitors with a wild frenzy.

"Serpillère, what did we say about charging people at the door?" Feuilly sighed for the benefit of the dog before turning towards more responsive individuals. "Hi guys, come in."

The dog apparently didn't give a damn about what had been said about not charging guests and circled around Enjolras, its snout looking for a hand to lick. Enjolras indulged the peppy beast with a quick pet on the head before stepping into the house. The decoration was straight out of the National Geographic, quite literally. The walls were covered in posters of landscapes and landmarks, postcards and photographs, as though they had used the whole place as a giant scrapbook. Enjolras stopped to look at polaroids pinned on a corkboard along with several métro and trained tickets. He recognized the Champs Elysées by night during Christmas season with all the blue fairy lights int the trees, Montmartre, quite a few of the jardin des Plantes in which Jehan was posing next to this or that flower.

"You like the travel board?" Feuilly asked, the dog still following him.

In the living room, Bossuet was already gone to greet Bahorel, the echo of their voices booming in the corridor, talking about their previous night out.

"Travel board?" Enjolras repeated, quirking an eyebrow. Montmartre wasn't exactly on the other side of the world.

"Well since we can't really afford to travel, we settled for something a bit less ambitious. At least, like that, we make it home on time to watch Fort Boyard."

Enjolras smiled and Feuilly took him by the shoulder to lead him towards the main room. Upon seeing him, Bahorel opened his arms to pull him into a bear hug. His rib cage was freed after a firm tap on the back, the shock bending his nape forward.

"How's that arm?" Bahorel roared enthusiastically. "Eight weeks to go and I'll finally get to rehabilitate that twig of yours."

Though he hardly considered his arms to be twigs, he had to admit that they paled into insignificance in comparison with his friend's. He aimed a small punch at Bahorel's shoulder and laughed along. The dog barked as to share his own thoughts to fuel the conversation.

"Still strong enough to beat your ass tonight," Enjolras smirked. "Did you actually name the dog Serpillère, though?"

Feuilly's hand went to lose itself in the many strands of hair piling up on top of the dog's head.

"Well she does look like one big mop," he sighed happily, scratching Serpillère's scalp.

"And acts like one, don't you Serpy?"

The debate on which game they were going to play, taking into account Enjolras's cast and Bahorel's hatred for Wii Sports, lasted so long that Feuilly had managed to pop frozen pizzas into the over and get them out crispy and golden before they reached a suitable compromise. Mario Kart 8 had the advantage to be a game Bossuet wasn't too terrible at and one Enjolras already knew how to play - or at least its basic gameplay. The cast proved not to be much of a inconvenient since his thumb could easily run over the remote's buttons, so everyone agreed to play.

 They kept the first race quite civil, avoiding throwing red shells at each other and rather competing against the computer than themselves. Bahorel even let Feuilly overtake him during the final lap, finishing in second place. The next race was already more unruly and filled with muttered curses, but they tried to keep the low-blows to a minimum. Chaos was reached by the third race, when Enjolras selected Rainbow Road. The last inch of friendship left in the group went out the window with banana peels on the track, green shells dashing all over it and the discreet curses turned into outcries of indignation. Enjolras was hot on Bossuet's trail, ready to take the race's lead by pushing the latter over the edge. Bossuet, his tongue between his teeth, was trying his best to resist the relentless offensives.

"Putain mais gros... Are you fucking trying to make me _fall_?!" Bossuet groaned, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

"Bitch I might be!" Enjolras retorted, rendered almost breathless by the instensity of the game.

By the last lap, Enjolras, Bossuet and Bahorel had got up off the couch, shouting encouragements at the screen. Feuilly, comfortably slumped in his armchair, crossed the finish line first without even breaking a sweat, a smirk plastered on his face.

"Rien ne sert de courir, il faut partir à point," the winner recited, picking a slice of pizza from the coffee table.

Enjolras fell back onto the couch, feeling as though he had run a half marathon. He followed Feuilly's lead and helped himself to a slice as well. The coffee table was submerged by random crap, sheets of paper, printed schedules, pens, CDs, books.. One cover in particular caught his eye and he put the slice back with the others to free his hand. "Mai 68, un pavé dans leur histoire," he read as picked it up. And it struck him. He knew this book. He _owned_ this book. He didn't even remember buying or even reading it but somehow every fiber of his being knew it was his.

He blinked, unable to move as though the realisation had left him stunned. He didn't know how long he stayed there, in utter stupor, before Bossuet called his name :

"Man? Eh? Enjolras?"

No word could escape his dry throat. It wasn't just the book he remembered. He had it on the tip of his tongue. Damn what was it?!

"Man, are you ok?"

He turned his head towards Feuilly. The latter stared back, visibly concerned, looking as though he was on the verge of getting up to get some help. Only then did he notice how silent the room had become. Even the dog had stopped yapping.

"I gave you this," Enjolras muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

His heart had started pounding in his chest. He remembered Feuilly's smile when he had given him the book. He remembered the long discussions they had had at the Fac's cafeteria. He remembered the first time they had met, sat next to each other in a crowded lecture hall. There was so much he just _knew_. It was like remembering a dream in the middle of the day, all its details forever fleeting but nonetheless _there_.

"I gave you this," he repeated, louder this time, waving the book as evidence. "I.. You said you wanted to read it that one time. It was on top of.. on top of a pile in my room. Feuilly I _gave_ it to you!"

Feuilly's face went from confused to ecstatic in a matter of second, jumping from his seat to rush to Enjolras. It was as though a bomb had exploded in the middle of the living room, Bahorel and Bossuet's cries of joy reverberating against the walls.

"You remember? You remember that?! Oh my god! What else do you remember?!"

They were all jumping up and down, not knowing what kind of reaction that type of situation called for. Enjolras received warm embraces and more pats on the back that was healthy. Serpy even jumped on the couch to share the elation.

"We still have crap Champagne in the fridge, I'll be right back!" Bahorel said before rushing to the kitchen.

He came back with four glasses and the said bottle of crap champagne, a wide grin on his face. Normally, Enjolras would have stopped him from filling his glass, but he was too overjoyed to burden himself with caution. No tonight. The smile that had bloomed on his lips felt like it would never wane. He _remembered_. It wasn't much, it wasn't everything, but he remembered it. And if that didn't call for celebration, he didn't know what did.

"To Enjolras!" Feuilly declared, raising his glass.

The other three followed and Enjolras's name echoed through the room. The latter was about to take his first sip when a door swung open.

"What are you all on about?" a voice croaked.

Enjolras flinched. Leaning on the door frame, Grantaire looked even more dishevelled than usual with his curls poking in every direction and his dirty over-sized t-shirt falling to his knees. He had visibly just got up, stirred out of sleep by the commotion.

"Shit, R! I completely forgot!" Bahorel laughed, making Grantaire squint harder at them to make out who was in the room.

"Get your ass over here R! Enjolras just remembered something!" Bossuet beamed, absolutely delighted by his best friend's unforseen arrival.

Enjolras, however, was much less enthusiastic at the idea. And apparently, so was Grantaire. As the latter's gaze finally fell on Enjolras, his body froze altogether. And though it only lasted a mere second, it was enough for Enjolras to notice. Soon enough, Grantaire had resumed his nonchalant attitude and raised a sarcastic thumb in the air.

" 'Mazing," he yawned, dragging himself towards the kitchen.

Bahorel did try to wrap his arm around him to get him to join the party but he smoothly wiggled his way out of the embrace.

"Just got up to get some coffee," he groaned. "Continue whatever you were doing with Jason Bourne over there and leave me out of it."

Enjolras frowned. What did he just call him? Jesus, if there was someone to spoil the moment, of course it would have to be him! Bahorel eventually gave up on his endeavour, letting Grantaire disappear in the kitchen with a shrug.

"Don't worry about it," Feuilly said. "He got completely smashed last night, it's the hangover talking."

"Yeah, he's always a little moody after a bender," Bossuet agreed. "How did you convince him to sober up here, Baz?"

"I didn't. You should have seen him last night, I almost carried him home under my arm! Thought he would have slept if off by now but eh."

Nobody seemed to make much of it except Enjolras himself, though he didn't voice his irritation out loud. But it _did_ bother him, Grantaire's attitude towards him. And he knew he shouldn't have cared, that he was a minority among his group of friends but still. He kept coming back to that first night at the hospital, the very first gaze that had crossed his, that stranger that had stayed one. Enjolras hated feeling like a duckling that had imprinted on the first person on sight, and yet here he was, waiting for a friendship that would never come.

Grantaire regained his lair a few minutes later, without even sparing them a glance. Enjolras followed him from the corner of his eyes until the door shut behind him. The champagne tasted bittersweet on his tongue, as would the memory of that night everytime he'd look back on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  Docteur Maboul : the french name of the game "Operation"  
> Serpillère : "Mop", pronounced like [so](https://www.howtopronounce.com/french/serpill%C3%A8re/). If anyone is interested she's a polish sheepdog cause POLAND  
> Fort Boyard : french television game that has been on TV for ever  
> "Putain mais gros" : Basically "Fuck, dude"  
> "Rien ne sert de courir, il faut partir à point" : famous quote by Jeand de la Fontaine "slow and steady wins the race"  
> Mai 68 : in May 1968, period of student riots in France, now if that rings a bell...
> 
> Initially I had planned on having Enjolras say "Bitch I might be" and Bossuet reacting "... Dude did you just remember a meme from 2013?!" but it was a bit too far fetched, even though the idea got me laughing more than once x)  
> As ever, thank you for reading, I'll see you next chapter or you can also join the madness on tumblr [right here](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/) ;)


	6. Striking a Chord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you all!  
> I feel like I've taken ages to write this chapter! It may be because I've taken part in the Les Mis Holidays Halloween Exchange, so I've been working on something else for a little while. Tune in at the end of October if you're curious ;)  
> There's a little shift of POV I was really excited about in this chapter! I let you dive in right away!  
> Happy reading!

Grantraire struck another string, his bass letting out a metallic note that hung in the air for a few seconds before fading completely. Other little sounds were hanging in the atmosphere as well, filling the empty flat with a bit of life - the faint roar of the fridge in the kitchen, the cars minding their own business down the street, the furniture creaking from time to time.

It was a rare thing, to be alone at the Palace. Living with four and a half people - Eponine sharing her time between Jehan's place and theirs - left little space for silence. Even at night, Bossuet's snoring would filter through the walls in a reassuring rhythm. Grantaire, though he loved the flat's usual busy atmosphere, appreciated this little piece of exceptional quiet. His own thoughts had been so noisy lately, running round and round in his head, screaming at every hour of the day, that he had found himself in need of silence. The calm would empty his brain or, at least, tone the voices down. And if it wasn't enough, he could always drown them.  
He focused his attention on the strings, only the strings. He knew them by heart. He knew the whole instrument like an extension of his own being. Each scratch was linked to a story. The one on the headstock was Bossuet's doing, when he had offered to put the bass back in its case. He had Marius to blame for the one on the body, when the poor bastard had tried to play - just for fun. His blushing had crept up up his ears when he had realised the damage, bless him. The one on the pickguard was Enjolras's handy work, not that the latter would remember.

The strings, dammit, focus on the strings.

But it was already too late, his mind had already begun to wander. He peeked anxiously at the coffee table. His phone was still there, sitting patiently at the spot he had unceremoniously tossed it on earlier. Eponine's text was still etched in his memory, indelible in spite of his best efforts :

**Ponine [1:45 PM] _Got a big staff meeting at work. Go and pick up E at the hospital at 3 for me, thanks <3_**

Grantaire had not even replied and had been avoiding clocks every since. Being in Enjolras's presence was beyond his strength. He had thought he could do it - act normally around him - but the truth was that he couldn't. Avoiding him altogether was an easy way out. It wasn't like Enjolras would miss him, anyway.  
His homecoming party had set the tone for Grantaire's new resolution. Four hours of watching him from the corner of his eyes had been enough. A sheep in wolf's clothing, Enjolras lacked the passion, the energy he had grown to love and admire and the sight was too much to bear.

So instead he had chosen to stay away, though fate kept throwing Enjolras at him every chance it got. It could only end one of two ways. Enjolras would either stay in the dark for the rest of his life, keeping Grantaire at bay or recover his memories and avoid him on his own initiative. Grantaire would be out of his great, beautiful picture either way, so why bother?

The stings had started to sing again when the front door slammed open. Hurried footsteps clacked against the floor. Shit. Grantaire looked up, stunned, fingers clasping the instrument nervously. He caught a glimpse of Eponine's hair before she disappeared into his room. Fuck, what time was it?! Did he still have time to pretend to go to the hospital? His hand reached for his phone but stopped into mid air at the voice of his best friend. "Pissed" would not even begin to cover the intensity of her tone.

"What the _fuck_ are you still doing here?! It's like 3:15!"

Grantaire looked up. Dishevelled as could be - due to the rush or the anger, he couldn't tell - Eponine was staring at him, her hands on her hips, a heavy-looking bag hanging on her shoulder. Grantaire closed his eyes and sighed, letting himself fall backwards into the couch. His fingers ran along the strings to give themselves something to do. The atmosphere that had been so peaceful then had blown up like a baloon under too much pressure.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he retorted, looking at his hands.

"I needed my laptop for the meeting," she explained curtly. "Seriously get off your ass, he's waiting all alone right now!"

"He's a big boy, Ponine, he'll find his way home just fine," he argued back, drumming faintly on the strings.

But his justification was far from being satisfying. He heard her bag hit the floor more than he saw it, his head stubbornly turned in the other direction.

"Why are you such an asshole to him?" she asked.

She was trying to contain herself, Grantaire knew her too well. But patience was not really Eponine's forte. Nevertheless, the question brought a lump to his throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit, you've been acting off ever since the accident!"

Since he had nothing to say to defend himself, he merely kept playing silently, his fingers brushing the instrument. Of course she noticed, he thought. What a fucking idiot you are for thinking she wouldn't. He wondered if the others did too.

"Ok, I can't play this game right now, get up."

Grantaire didn't flinch at the command, staying irremediably put. A storm was heading his way, he could feel it. The tension that had begun to fill the room was a bubble waiting to be burst. Eponine was a cloud, gathering herself before unleashing all her fury and her thunder upon him. And somewhere, deep down, he knew he wanted it. He wanted her anger to wash over him like a wave, hitting his bitter shores, cleansing him of his self-pity.

" _GET UP!_ "

She slapped his shoulder and took the bass from his hands in a forceful yank. She was five foot of exasperation and ire, Nemesis in all her strength and just for a second, Grantaire couldn't help but admire her righteous rage.

"Grantaire, I love you, but it's about time you grow the fuck up! You can't keep brooding in your sad little corner like a child!"

"You don't get it! It's not even him anymore! I can't do this!"

He stared at her defiantly. Give me your worst, he thought, give me all you've got. The waves were coming, the rumble of Eponine's blood was almost audible.

"Bouhou the guy I've been eyeing for centuries doesn't even remember me! This isn't about you, dickhead! It's about him!"

Her yelling was bouncing against the walls, slapping Grantaire across the face far more viciously than her hand ever could.

"He's your friend, you moron! He needs you and all you're doing is wallowing in your own misery! You're not helping anybody, yourself included!"

Eponine's anger was his own, not matter how many lies he could tell himself. The guilt he had been waiting for came like a punch to the stomach. Her spiel was coming to its end but he knew her words would haunt him. They were just the way he wanted them to be : devastating and undeniable.

"So now you're going to get out, go to the hospital and apologise to him, you hear me?"

Grantaire nodded. Eponine had taken his intent to stay away from Enjolras and shattered in on the floor. If he went to the hospital, there would be no going back and he knew it. But then again, Grantaire had never really been one for good resolutions.

* * *

Eponine was late. She was very very late. She's the one who had said she'd pick him up in front of the hospital, right? Enjolras checked his watch for the umpteenth time. She should have been there thirty minutes ago, and no matter how much he tried, Enjolras couldn't help but to jump at the worst conclusions. What if something had happened? What if she was at the hospital _right now_ , only not as a visitor? He knew more than anyone else that this kind of things did not just happen to other people.

He leafed through "Mai 68, un pavé dans leur histoire" nervously, shifting his position on the bench he was sat on every two minutes. Feuilly had lent it to him, thinking that he'd like it, given that it had literally been his at some point. He had not been mistaken. Enjolras had been up a major part of the previous night, reading and highlighting - with Feuilly's authorisation - some particularly good passages. But thinking that something bad had happened to Eponine made the reading process a lot more difficult. That and the lack of food in his stomach

He had been reading the same sentence for the fourth time when a bike braked right in front of him, scattering gravel all over the place. Startled, Enjolras pressed the book against him in a movement of panic before looking up.

Grantaire was staring back at him, perched on top of a bicycle. He gaped in confusion. What the hell? What was _he_ doing here, of all people? It was like the universe was sending him his way for its own amusement. Enjolras swept away the gravel that had flown onto his lap, taking a deep breath to contain his irritation.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked bluntly.

His tone was coarser then he had initially intended it to be but to be fair, Grantaire had always been the rude one to begin with. Chances were that he wouldn't even care. Though his frown seemed to indicate the opposite.

"Ponine was busy so she asked me to pick you up."

There was something hesitant about him, guarded. And usually, Enjolras would have tried to guess, to understand, but not today. He had had enough of it, of the Great Grantaire Puzzle he couldn't piece together. He was hungry, he was tired and he had been waiting for nothing but a jerk on a bike. This wasn't exactly a good day. He closed the book with a snap and got up.

"Well, don't feel obligated to do anything. I'll manage on my own."

How difficult could it be? Belleville was not that far! He'd rather walk on his own than to deal with the uncomfortable silence of Grantaire's company. His attitude at Bahorel and Feuilly's was still stuck in his throat like an annoying fishbone.

"Come on-," Grantaire started, getting off the bike, before Enjolras cut him off :

"You've made it pretty clear that you don't want anything to do with me, so can't you just _go_!?"

Being angry was new to him. He had not yelled at anybody for a while, at least not that he could remember. It felt good, liberating even. He held Grantaire's gaze, his lips thinned with exasperation. He's looking at you in the eyes, a little voice whispered in his head. Only it was too late for that. We would have cared a week ago but that ship had sailed since then. Seeking friendship where there was nothing more than indifference had proven to be too exhausting to his taste.

"I don't need your pity, ok? If you don't like me that's fine just don't act like you do for the others' sake and leave me be!"

He took a few hurried steps past Grantaire, resolved to put this conversation and the man he was having it with behind him. Which way was home already? Damn, he couldn't think! Where did Combeferre pull over earlier...

"I'm sorry."

The apology dropped like a flash of lightning, striking Enjolras in the middle of yet another pace. The latter furrowed. What now? What did he just hear? He turned around to see Grantaire tentatively pushing his bike in his direction. There wasn't a single hint of a sly smile on his face, unlike what he had become used to. No, he seemed strangely earnest and... sincere. Two expressions he had the greatest difficulty to associate with Grantaire and yet, here they were.

"What?"

His confusion had mingled with his anger and the mix left him dumbfounded.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "For me. For being a dick to you. I didn't mean to, it's just.. I didn't know how to react I guess."

Puzzled, Enjolras blinked to cope with the weight of the blue eyes staring at him. He had often been irritated by his lack of eye contact but now that this very gaze was fixed on him, he found himself unable to hold them for too long. Maybe because his own embarrassment was too much to bear without having to add Grantaire's to it. His harsh words had dried up his throat, leaving him at a loss for words. Not that he had any idea how to respond to that, anyway.

"It just fucked me up, you know? I know that's not a good excuse but.. well."

Grantaire held out his hand to him, still keeping a comfortable distance between them but one Enjolras didn't read as voluntary aloof this time. No, it was a mark of respect toward his comfort zone, a chance for him to either withdraw now or to bridge the gap. Their hands met in the middle in an awkward handshake.

"Grantaire," the latter announced with a small smile, "local asshole, nice to meet you."

Enjolras let out a breathless chuckle, finally taking hold of his words. Grantaire's hand was warm in his. Funny how he had imagined them to be cold.

"Enjolras, local... what did you call me? Jason Bourne, was it?"

The other flashed an amused, though embarrassed smile before letting go of this hand.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"I'd be offended but I don't even know who that guy is."

"Jesus, I knew your film knowledge was poor but that's _sad_!"

In a silent mutual agreement, they began to walk side by side, Grantaire pushing his bicycle next to him. Still unsure how to behave, Enjolras kept tiptoeing through the conversation, trying to keep it light even though deeper questions were still dwelling on his mind. His companion was more than willing to stick the small talk.

"What were you at the hospital for?" he asked, guiding them through a maze of paved pedestrian streets.

"Oh, you know, blood tests, general psych evaluations... They say I'm a bit forgetful."

The urge he felt to make Grantaire laugh was strange to him but irrepressible all the same. It's only fair, he thought, after having yelled at him, it's only a matter of evening the balance. Seeing his poor attempts at humour hitting their target brought a discrete smile to his lips. It, however, faded quickly when Grantaire came to an abrupt stop. Damn, was it something he had said? Irritated passers-by grumbled to themselves as they walked around them, complaining about the impediment.

"Wait... Aren't you supposed to do those on an empty stomach? The blood tests?"

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow. The whole argument and peace offering business had taken his mind off his stomach for a while, dulling the ache he was carrying in his belly. But as though summoned by its own name, his stomach gave off a loud gurgling sound that didn't go unnoticed.

"When was the last time you ate?"

When indeed. He never really kept track of these things. He merely followed Combeferre and Courfeyrac's eating habits, often forgetting to eat when he was left to his own devices.

"Last night I guess," he shrugged.

Grantaire shook his head with a long sigh, muttering the last words to himself.

"Come, we're going to get you something to eat before you faint. Ponine will skin me alive if you end up at the hospital twice in the same day. Or at all, really."

They took a couple of alleyways and hidden passages, some of them too narrow for them to be side by side. On these occasions Grantaire would take the lead with the assurance of someone who had walked these cobblestones a hundred times. And for all Enjolras knew, he might as well have. There was so much he didn't know about him, now that he was thinking about it. Yes, he had Courfeyrac's flashcards but there was so much you could fit on a piece of paper. For instance, they did not mention that Jehan was the proud owner of three little cacti, respectively named Baudelaire, Musset and Lamartine, that Bahorel had the warmest laugh he had ever heard or that Joly took pictures of the setting sun every single day. These were all facts he had gathered after having spent time with them, and he wondered what sort of depths he would uncover with Grantaire.

The scout finally stopped in front of a bakery shop window, resting his bicycle against it. Enjolras's gaze went up to the sign above the door. "Monsieur Madeleine" was carved in beautiful letters onto a polished wooden panel along with two ears of corn, the whole thing gleaming in the sunlight. The Valjeans' bakery he had heard so much about. Grantaire gave him the sign to follow him inside and he obliged.

The comforting smell of freshly baked bread filled his lungs the second he set foot in the store. Inside, everything was neatly arranged, each product catching the eye of the costumers, ready to make even the pickiest eater hungry. Behind the display shelf, Cosette literally beamed at them.

"Oh my! What are you two doing here?" she elated, leaving her post to greet them.

She gave Enjolras a warm hug, rubbing his back as though she had not seen him in ages and then turned to Grantaire to give him the same treatment. Enjolras watched her getting on her heels to lean into the embrace, her friend wrapping his arms around her waist to lift her off the ground.

"Well _someone_ hasn't eaten today because the nasty doctors wanted to drain them completely," Grantaire explained once Cosette was back on her feet, nodding towards him.

She frowned, pouting her lips.

"How are you even standing on your two legs, young man?" she scolded gently, her hands on her waist. "Thank god you came to the right place!"

Her sentence was barely finished that she took his hand and sprung towards the baked goods. Enjolras's vision was overwhelmed by an endless stream of croissants, pains aux chocolats, pains au lait, madeleines, macarons and others things he couldn't even name. And when he was asked to make a choice, he found himself incapable of making one. Had he followed his stomach's impulses, he would have gulped the whole thing at once.

"Just give us four Mariannes, it'll do," Grantaire settled.

Cosette's hand flew to a pile of large cookies covered in blue, white and red icing. With all the care in the world, she took four of them and added one with a discreet wink to Enjolras before putting them away in a paper bag. Behind them, customers had begun to queue up, waiting for their turn. Enjolras patted his pockets and hastily looked inside his bag.

"Shit, I must have forgotten my wallet at the flat!"

"It's ok, I've got it," Grantaire offered, not without adding a small "forgetful.." under his breath as he took his wallet out of his pocket.

Enjolras frowned. Whether it was a matter of pride or politeness - he himself didn't know - the idea of having Grantaire paying for him didn't sit well with him.

"What? No!" he tried to protest but the other merely quirked an eyebrow and flashed an amused smile.

"Relax Apollo, I'm not buying a house here, I think you can handle a 2 euro debt."

Apollo... He knew he had heard that nickname before. It wasn't a memory, or at least not the kind of memory he had lost. It was something he had heard before from Grantaire's mouth but he couldn't quite place when. His mind was still pondering on that detail once they had left the shop, excusing themselves to the other customers they had delayed. Grantaire sat on a bench just outside, holding a cookie out to him. Enjolras sat next to him, taking an absent-minded bite. Apollo, Apollo, Apollo. He tried to remember everytime he had seen Grantaire since the accident to pin point the moment he had heard this very phrase but something was stuck, like a clot in his brain. He chewed some more, lost in thought. And then he almost bit his tongue.

"THE HOSPITAL!" he exclaimed, victorious.

The other nearly choked on his own cookie.

"What?" he managed to articulate between two coughing fits.

"Apollo! At the hospital!" Enjolras tried to explain but to no avail. "You called me that at the hospital! I knew it rang a bell!"

Grantaire blinked for a few seconds before the penny dropped.

"Oh, that! Yeah, I probably did."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why Apollo?"

The man gaped at him, his eyes lost in the distance as though he didn't know where to begin his explanation.

"Well you're very... blond," he offered with a shrug. "It's just a thing I call you, really. Mainly because it pisses you off. I did try to apply the mythology-themed nicknames to the others too but Bahorel gets kind of menacing when I called him Ares."

Enjolras nodded, pensive. No matter how deep he looked, he couldn't see himself being bothered by the nickname. If anything, it was rather reassuring, even thought the "blond" argument was pretty thin. He took another bit out of his cookie. The icing and the crust snapped beautifully beneath his teeth but the biscuit itself was fluffy and soft, inviting him to another bite.

"It's going to sound pretty weird but since I never asked... What do you do? I mean, for a living?"

Actually, Enjolras already knew the answer to that question, it was written on Grantaire's flashcard and he had reread it enough times to retain the information. But it seemed like a polite thing to do, to talk about someone other than himself.

"Struggling artist," Grantaire smiled. "Or rather independent artist, I'm not struggling that much."

"Meaning?"

"Oh, you know, I draw stuff. Sometimes for local papers, sometimes this or that business wants a new logo or shit like that. I made that, too."

He nodded towards the bakery where the wooden sign was still bathed in sunlight, the very same one Enjolras had been admiring earlier.

"You designed it?" he asked.

"And carved it, yeah."

Oh. So that was the kind of hidden depth Enjolras had been wondering about. Hidden was the word, really. He would never have guessed that beyond Grantaire's coarse exterior was someone capable of creating such a delicate thing.

"Made the ABC logo too," he continued. "And I'm usually the one designing the posters you guys love to pin everywhere so much. It's my way to justify my presence there I guess."

"So that's why I haven't kicked you out yet," Enjolras laugh, relaxing on the bench. "Because I can't even draw matchstick men."

Grantaire chuckled breathlessly.

"Believe me, I know! Nobody wants to be in your team when we play Pictionary!"

* * *

 

 **R [5:30 PM]** _**Thanks for kicking my ass** _

**Reply [5:34 PM]** _**is2g that should be a full-time job.** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  Baudelaire, Musset and Lamartine : These are the names of three famous Romantic poets because as well all know Jehan like his Romanticism  
> Marianne : ok this cookie doesn't actually exists but just picture a large cookie with the icing looking like [this](http://www.theparisblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/cocarde-tricolore.jpg). Plus Marianne is the name given to the French allegory if you get my drift ;)  
> Oh wow writing from R's POV was fun but my brain was torn my coffee headaches at the same time so it was kind of an ordeal! Also, I added the "occasional food porn" tag because I realised a lot of the chapters featured food and whatnot but I guess that comes with the frenchess that is at stake here
> 
> As ever, your feedback always makes my day and keeps me going, so don't hesistate and hit the kudos button or the comment section if you liked this chapter ;) And if you want more les Mis stuff you can always say hi at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	7. Another Kind of Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!  
> I was so SO excited about this chapter because it's one of the first chapters I ever came up with when planning this fic, the very end is basically what drove me to write the rest to be honest! I was like a kid on Christmas day writing it so I hope you'll feel the same thing once you're finished reading :')  
> I also included a bit of Courferre goodness because... well, just because!  
> Have a good read! ;)

Babysitting Eponine's siblings had been a mistake. Well, not a mistake per say, all in all it had been a well-spent afternoon but its aftermath had simply happened to sour the overall experience.

Enjolras and Bossuet -his schedule being completely free due to his unemployment- had volunteered to take care of Gavroche and Azelma for a day on Eponine's behalf. From what he had understood, the kids were better off out of the house, Eponine's tone had made that crystal clear. They had taken the pair to the swimming pool, to the kids' utmost delight. Enjolras had watched the Thénardiers leading a ruthless aquatic campaign against Bossuet from a plastic deck chair, his cast forbidding any kind of swimming whatsoever. Not that he minded, he had been more than happy to watch from a distance as Bossuet had been submerged by his feisty opponants.

To his own surprise, he had discovered that he liked the Thénardiers kids. He didn't dislike children altogether, they were the future after all, but he had always been... awkward around them. What do you even talk about with a five year old? Children had always been Courfeyrac's field of expertise, even Combeferre's. But Azelma and Gavroche were driven by a peculiar fire, a rebellious flame that spoke to him. Cunning was the word he had used later when Eponine had asked him how he had found them.

"Yeah, you pick that up pretty quickly when you live in that fucking house," Eponine had sighed before covering her words up with a smile.

What Enjolras had failed to remember, though, was the fact that children were living and breathing cesspools of germs, comfortable ball pits in which viruses could happily play and develop until they would find another playground to invade. He had realised his mistake a few days later when he had woken up to an itchy throat and a stuffed nose : his immune system had been breached. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been that surprised, Azelma had indeed sneezed all afternoon. No, the real shock had lain in the fact that Bossuet had remained unscathed.

What had begun by a few sniffles and a couple of used tissues had quickly evolved into a full blown flu, keeping him in bed for two days in a row. He had been the worst of patients, claiming that he wasn't sick to whoever had been here to hear him, refusing to take some rest or to take his temperature.

"Why do you insist?" he had whimpered as Combeferre was trying to get him to open his mouth, a thermometer in his hand. "I told you, I'm _fine._ "

His definition of "fine" included an ocean of tissues scattered all over the floor, sheets drenched in sweat and a constant state of delirium.

"I could very well stick that thing up the other end of your anatomy, so open your mouth," the other had sighed, waiting for the shivering patient to obey.

That argument had managed to unseal Enjolras's lips. After a while, the thermometer had beeped, revealing a 39.6°C fever.

"You're on slow-cook mode," Courfeyrac had commented. "I could fry an egg on your forehead!"

The really hard days had past, though they had seemed to stretch for an eternity to Enjolras's confused mind. When he woke up on the third day, he did not feel _good_ , but he felt _better_. At least the episodes of delirium were behind him. His legs were all stiff from his extended stay beneath the covers and he stumbled his way out of his room with a hand against the wall. The faint mumble of television rang to his ears as he was making his way to the living room. On the couch, Combeferre was absorbed in the program he was watching -Motus, apparently-, so much that Enjolras's coughing fit made him jump.

"Oh god! I wasn't expecting you to be up. Come sit down, your brain must be all over the place."

Now that he mentioned it, he did feel a little dizzy and his vision was speckled with white flashes. Not to mention his weak and shaky legs threatening to give at any moment. Combeferre patted the cushion next to him and Enjolras flung himself on the offered spot, letting a sigh of relief out as he did.

"What day is it?" he asked breathlessly, closing his eyes to gather himself.

He felt Ferre's hand threading its way between his tangled curls to find his forehand. The cool fingers on his skin felt like a stronger medicine than the actual medication he had been taking for the past couple of days.

"The 15th. You're still burning up a little bit, is your head alright?"

"Like the back alley of a nightclub on a Thursday night," he answered in a sigh.

"I'll get you a doliprane."

Ferre's warmth left him as the latter stood up. Enjolras opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of his friend's shadow sliding to the kitchen.

"500mg or 1gr?" Combeferre's voice rose from the other room.

"Surprise me!"

The doctor-to-be emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water and two pills, handing them both to Enjolras with a sympathetic smile. He could have sworn that smile had healing proprieties of its own. Combeferre was endowed with this kind of calming aura, the soothing presence of a man wise beyond his years. It wasn't new to him, Enjolras still remembered the day he had met him, all calm and composed already. It had just... increased with time.

He gulped down the pills with a sip of water, alleviating his parched lips and dry throat. In the meantime, Combeferre had retrieved a blanket from under the couch and had proceeded to wrap him into it.

"You should be fine in a couple of days," he promised, his hands smoothing the edges of the blanket. "Your immune system is just a little slow because it's been busier since the accident."

"I don't recall you ever getting sick, though," Enjolras mused, leaning against his friend as the latter sat down next to him.

"That's because I exercise and take my bloody vitamins," he laughed. "Don't pout like that, you look like a grumpy spring roll."

Combeferres unconditional love for intellectual game shows eventually took over as they both turned their attention to the screen. For Enjolras, the real challenge was to watch this poor excuse of a "game" without falling asleep but Combeferre's frenetic whispering was too distracting to do so anyway. He had managed to doze off a little during the commercial break but a loud ringtone startled him awake.

"It's Courf. 'Look who went in for free drinks and a romantic lunch'," he read aloud before handing his phone out to Enjolras.

On the screen was a picture of Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta sat around a table, waving at the camera and -by extension- Courfeyrac himself. He had not seen Joly in a week, the latter refusing to get in contact with his germs and other miasma. He would call instead, taking note of his husky voice and the frequency of his coughing fits before debriefing with Combeferre. But still, Enjolras missed him. How weird was that? He had gotten so attached to these people...

His thumb slid across the screen, displaying another picture. He recognised his own bedroom and a shaped rolled-up in the sheets that could only be his. He furrowed.

"Wait, you took pictures of me in my sleep?!"

"Feuilly was asking for news and a picture is worth a thousand words," Combeferre quipped in response.

Enjolras grumbled something that could have been "you little shit" if he had bothered to articulate a bit more and kept sliding his thumb to get to other photos. Most of them were pictures of books, pages Combeferre intended to read later no doubts, anatomic drawings and graphics he didn't even begin to understand. The rest were mainly of Courfeyrac, Courf sleeping, Courf laughing, Courf being... well, himself. Enjolras stopped on one featuring both of his best friends posing in the front of the Cité des Sciences. From the hand that wasn't holding his boyfriend's, Courfeyrac was making an enthusiastic v sign.

"That was on my birthday," Combeferre explained, looking over his shoulder. "Courf had bought ticket to the Cité des Sciences because they had this whole exhibit about insects at the time, it was great!"

From the corner of his eye, Enjolras noticed his friend's blissful smile and the softness in his gaze as he was reminiscing. Never in three years of high school had he ever imagined this, being sat there, in a flat they shared between the three of them, his best friends involved in the most "aw" inducing relationship he had ever witnessed. It was strange, yes. But it felt undeniably right.

Courfeyrac got home soon after to the sound of Les Z'amours and two idiots laughing at the participants. His first move was to kiss his boyfriend on the forehead, affectionate fingers lingering on his cheeks and neck before joining the party on the couch. As ever, he came back with a bundle of stories from work to tell. He was focused on narrating how Bossuet had managed to break his glass with his fork when another train of thought collided with the first one, cutting the story short :

"Shit, I almost forgot! Musichetta asked if we were up for drinks tonight with Jehan. And I didn't know what to tell her since.. Well Enj', you're still sick and all that..."

Enjolras blinked, completely lost. What was he on about?

"So?" he asked, confused.

"Well I don't want to leave you home alone.. You never know.."

Courfeyrac's tone had gotten terribly earnest all of a sudden. For someone who always had a laugh ready at the back of his throat, the contrast sounded all the more starker. His gaze was heavy of unsaid things Enjolras could easily conjecture. He sniffed and offered a reassuring smile.

"I'm going to be just fine. I'll just sleep through the night. Won't ever know you went out, promised."

"He's right, though," Combeferre intervened. "We can't exactly leave you alone because your body and or your brain could have an unforeseen reaction to the different chemicals in your meds and -"

When Doctor Talk was enabled, there was no other way to stop him than to cut him short.

"Okay okay, call in a babysitter then for all I care. I don't want you to... miss things because of me.."

They were already doing way too much to his taste.

"Sure?"

"Well I can always kiss you and smear your face with snot to make you stay?"

He pursed his lips in Courfeyrac's direction, opening his arms wide as though to engulf him whole.

"Get off! _Get off_!"

* * *

By the time Enjolras woke up from yet another feverish nap, the sun had gone down. He had not even heard Courfeyrac and Combeferre leaving the flat -though, knowing them, they had probably taken good care to leave without a sound. He sniffed once, twice, and rolled on the other side of the bed to find a cooler spot. Keeping his eyes irremediably shut, he groped around the sheets and the cover for his green piece of cloth. He dug it up from under his thigh and pressed it against his chest, ready to pick his nap up where he had left it off. But something in the atmosphere felt... odd. Enjolras frowned. What was it? Far too anchored in his lethargy, he was loath to open his eyes, the mere idea felt like an unsurmountable effort. He pricked up his ear instead.

There was something indeed. A vague sound, so faint it was barely audible. The scratching of a pen on paper.

Enjolras's eyes flew open. At first blind in the darkness, they took a second to adjust and to catch the golden glow at the other side of the room. His head turned to find its source, then his whole body followed the movement. Someone had turned the desk lamp on, probably the same someone that was sat at that very desk, his back to Enjolras. The scratching was getting more perceptible now that he was paying attention to it. He recognised Grantaire's messy hair and posture, his back bent in concentration over whatever it was he was doing.

"So you're the babysitter then," he croaked.

The scratching stopped. Grantaire straightened his back and turned towards him, swinging his arm over the back of the chair. The light of the lamp was casting shadows over his face, so much that Enjolras had a hard time making out his eyes. Although that could have been the fever.

"Apparently. Not too disappointed?"

Enjolras had come to learn that Grantaire's teasing tone and ever nonchalant smile were not there out of contempt, unlike what he had been led to believe. No, they were just... him. It had been a week since their peace treaty at the hospital. Between their awkward handshake and cautious jokes, they had considerably warmed up to each other, no doubt, but still, there was a slight tentativeness to their conversations, something apologetic in the way they acted around each other.

Enjolras cleared his throat -not without a few coughs in the process- and sat up, wrapping himself in the covers up to his neck.

"No I just... thought you'd be the first in line for a night out, is all."

Grantaire tilted his head and a ray of light lit up his smile, just of a second.

"Yeah well, I am, but I have work to do so I volunteered," he sighed, lifting papers from the desk for emphasis.

"And me who thought you volunteered out of sheer kindness," Enjolras joked with an overdramatic tone and a hand on his heart.

"Well watching you sleep doesn't exactly pay the bills I'm afraid. How are you feeling?"

It was the first time he heard that question from him. He was used to it by now, he had had to answer it countless times, but it had always come from Combeferre, Joly, Feuilly, Jehan or anybody for that matter. He could only guess that their budding friendship meant that he now had to add Grantaire to that list. It didn't felt strange so much as encouraging.

"Hungry," he said, to his own surprise; he had not been hungry in a long while.

From the other end of the room, he saw Grantaire nodding in satisfaction.

"Good, 'cause I have something for you! Well, Joly does, but I did carry it all this way."

Promptly getting up on his feet, Grantaire left the desk and the room altogether. Enjolras's gaze followed him until he vanished behind the door, confused. He definitely wasn't awake enough to make sense of all this. Wiggling out of the covers a bit, he started to stretch his stiff and sore limbs, letting out jaw-unhinging yawns. He grabbed a shirt from under the bed, an age-old crumpled thing he would usually wear to bed under normal circumstance, that is to say when he wasn't sweating from each and every inch of his skin because of a fever. If he didn't mind strolling around with nothing more than pajama bottoms in Courfeyrac and Combeferre's presence, he reckoned he and Grantaire were not _there_ yet.

Once he had made sure he had enough balance to do so, Enjolras dragged his feet to the desk. Various sketches were scattered there, both messy and incredibly detailed. His index trailed along the curve of a pear that only existed on paper, its shape perfectly rendered and the shading making it almost life-like. He browsed through other sketches, spotting a face that looked a lot like Bahorel's, another that was no doubt Gavroche's. His fingers stopped on a poster, the layout still filled with question marks in graphite pencil. "Musain, Fête de la Musique", he read, "Allan, Edgar, Poe & the Romantics". He turned the page over to get more explanation but the back was blank.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look at an unfinished work?" Grantaire's voice rose from the door.

Enjolras flinched, caught red-handed. He had been so absorbed by the drawings that, for a second, he had forgotten the one who had made them. The latter was holding a steaming bowl of soup in his hands, a tea towel wrapped around it as not to burn himself. He handed the whole thing to Enjolras who had since then let the drawings be.

"Sorry, they just caught my eye. Oh, thank you."

The warmth of the china was still filtering through the tea towel, sending pleasant waves along his hands and arms. The smell of coriander, lemon and ginger began to fill the room, adding to the feeling of comfort. Grantaire took back his seat while Enjolras sat on the edge of the bed, gently blowing the steam away.

"Joly made it," Grantaire explained. "He says it'll cure any cold."

"He makes them in the middle of summer?" Enjolras asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"No, he's got a whole batch in tupperwares in the freezer, just in case some idiots get sick out of season."

They both smiled, Enjolras's breath swaying the steam some more. The first sip turned out to be hotter than expected, so he set the bowl on his lap, balancing it securely to avoid any leakage.

"It's that for Jehan's band?"

He nodded towards the desk and the unfinished poster. If memory served him well, there had been talks about a certain band over the weeks, words about rehearsals and up coming concerts but he had never quite got the gist of it. Grantaire cast a vague glance at the sketch.

"What, the AEPR? Yeah that's our band, I have to finish this for tomorrow."

"Oh, I didn't know you were in it."

To be fair, he didn't know a lot about... Well, most things. His knowledge of Grantaire just happened to be even more restricted than the rest. He took a more careful sip out of his soup, letting the warmth wash over him.

"There's four of us in it. Jehan is our lead singer, 'Ponine's the guitarist, Bossuet's the drummer and I'm the bassist. You probably got that already but Jehan chose the name, of course."

Enjolras smiled above his bowl.

"I bet he did."

"He's Allan, Bossuet's Edgar, 'Ponine's Poe, of course, and I'm the Romantics," he explained, opening his arms wide as to introduce himself to a crowd. "Which reminds me, 'Ponine said you'd better be on your feet by Sunday. She insists that you come, she'll drag you there if need be."

"Damn, I'd better finish that whole thing up then," Enjolras smiled, waving the bowl in his hand.

Grantaire went back to his sketches with an amused snort and Enjolras crawled back into bed, holding the hot china against his chest. He would have tried to read something, but his brain couldn't keep up with written words and complex sentences. Of course, "complex sentences" could have meant anything from Le Monde's latest political article to Courfeyrac's Winnie the Pooh illustrated book. So he revelled in doing nothing instead. Sipping his soup and listening to Grantaire's faint hum was enough of a distraction to keep him awake. He made it a game to detail him, to know the shape the lamp outlined, from the hem of his sleeves to each and every one of his curls.

What would they feel like if he were to touch them? Thick or silky, gliding between his fingers like a ribbon? His mind started to wander further. Enjolras pictured his own hands rubbing those shoulders, trailing up and down Grantaire's arms. He imagined laying a kiss on top of his head and burying his face in his hair. He reenacted all the gestures he associated with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, their tender looks, their brushing hands, their gentle kisses, all of them with him. What would he feel like, against him? What would he _taste_ like?

His heart leaped in his chest with a violent pang and he almost dropped the bowl onto the sheets. It's the fever, he thought, it must be the fever. But the ringing of his frenetic heartbeat in his ears didn't seem to agree with that theory. He sat there, overwhelmed by the surge of feelings, unable to look away. What the hell? What the _fuck_?!  


In a sort of fight-or-flight response, Enjolras jumped out of bed, his legs still uncertain of their own strength and rushed towards the door. He needed to get out, he couldn't stay here, something was wrong, very wrong. 

"Where are you going?" he heard Grantaire ask behind him.

"I -er - forgot my meds!" he improvised, rushing in the corridor.

His bare feet felt numb against the parquet, as though his whole body was frozen. He couldn't think. His mind was a chaotic mess. How..? What..? There were no words to match this crushing wave of emotions that had settled in his chest. His flight led him to the kitchen sink and only then did he stop to take a long breath. His valid hand clasped its edge for balance. His ragged breathing eased a little, but there was nothing he could do about the pounding reverberating throughout his ribcage. 

_I love him_ , Enjolras thought. _I love him, why do I love him?_

Why. He didn't even  remember why . And yet he knew what it was, this feeling. He knew it as though is was etched, carved onto his bones. It was a memory of the heart, not of the mind. Enjolras did not even remember meeting Grantaire in the first place, or befriending him, or falling in love with him the first time he did, and yet he knew it to his core. He had heard of phantom limbs before but phantom feelings... He wrapped his arms around himself in a desperate hug. The craving for physical touch he had felt earlier was still there, waiting to be satisfied _.  
_

_ I'm in love with him,  _ Enjolras kept thinking over and over, bewildered.

A small chuckle escaped him. Taken off-guard, he had not even taken the time to notice the warmth that had settled within him. There was a pleasant, fuzzy sensation in his abdomen, something that was both terrifying and addictive. I'm in love with him, he chuckled some more. No, no! his reason tried to fight back. This is terrible, stop it, pull yourself together! Caught in the crossfire of his own emotions, Enjolras stayed there against the sink, his gaze fixed on the drain but his lips curled up into a smile. Still, a question kept bouncing back and forth in his head : 

What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  Motus : The french version of Lingo  
> "Like the back alley of a nightclub on a Thursday night" : Thursday nights are known to be students' nights, meaning that they go out to bar and nightclubs and make a lot of noise in general. I live in the nightclub neighbourhood, trust me on this  
> Doliprane : French people's most trusted painkiller  
> La Cité des Sciences : It's the biggest science museum in Europe and, conveniently, is located in Paris  
> Les Z'amours : The french version of The Newlywed Game  
> Fête de la Musique : It's an event held throughout France on the 21st of June to celebrate music and the first day of summer. Every city organizes musical events, concerts etc etc  
> Le Monde : One of the biggest and renowned french newspapers
> 
> I swear to god Enjolras's green wubby blanket will have its place somewhere, it was supposed to be in this chapter but I changed some stuff so it'll come later (a) Sooooo people, let the pining begin o/
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts about all this! So don't hesistate to comment and leave kudos, I, as always, live for them! And you can always come and say hi at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) on tumblr! ;)


	8. Novocaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!  
> First of all I wanted to thank you for all your lovely (and AMAZING) feedback! It was more than I ever expected and I'll never thank you enough for it!  
> Wow it took a while but I'm back! And with a long-ish chapter with that! Expect a lot of side ships because since the two main idiots are still pining, gotta bring the fluff from elsewhere!  
> Also, be prepared for a bit of drinking, nothing too serious, but still enough to be mentioned.
> 
> Have a good time! :D

"Enjolras, coming?" Combeferre's voice rose from behind the door.

Enjolras cast a hurried look at the mirror. He had locked himself up in the bathroom for ten good minutes, looking at his own reflection more than he ever had his entire life. Do I look ok? What if I put that lock a little bit more on the right? Or on the left? Oh god, everything is a mess! His indecisiveness was both nerve-racking and infuriating. Why did he even care about these things in the first place?! It made no sense!

"I.. er.. just a minute!"

He yanked the sleeve of his red flannel up his cast with a scowl, though he was more angry with himself than the fabric. With a bit of gymnastics (nothing he wasn't used to by now), he managed to roll it up just above the cast and to button it. His gaze rose up one last time towards the mirror to inspect the end result and he smoothed the folds as best as he could. Here. Ready. Or as ready as he would ever be.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already waiting for him in the main room when he got out of the bathroom. Courfeyrac had slipped on his gaudiest outfit for the occasion, a yellow shirt speckled with various musical symbols, the whole thing accompanied by a black bowtie and suspenders that had absolutely no business supporting his black tight fit jeans. And yet - inexplicably - he still managed to pull it off. Combeferre could only appear more serious standing next to him. His only touch of eccentricity was to be found in the rim of his glasses that was matching his boyfriend's shirt. Enjolras smiled, the sight setting his antsiness aside.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in that shirt," he laughed, bending a strap of Courf's suspenders.

"Fuck off, it's my jazzy get-up. Jazzy, Fête de la Musique, get it?"

Marius, Musichetta and Joly were already waiting for them outside the building when they got out of the lift. Musichetta opened her arms wide to give Enjolras a warm hug before offering the same greeting to the other two, Marius taking over her place. Joly's little hand landed on his forehead while Marius was busy squeezing him a bit too tight.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"Absolutely! I am no longer a threat to anyone's immune system!" he declared, almost proudly.

His answer got him a pat on the forehead and another on the back from Marius who had eventually decided to free his rib cage.

"Isn't that the shirt Marius got you for your birthday, Courf?" Musichetta inquired, tucking the latter's collar properly like a mother fussing over her child on his first day of school.

"The very one, yeah!" he smiled brightly, his chest swollen with pride.

"Tsss," she sighed. "Where are the fashion police when we need them."

She ruffled his already messy -or rather purposefully messy- hair and laughed her way away from Courfeyrac's reach. Unable to get his revenge, he put his hands on his hips.

"Do not mock my most treasured possession, you tasteless peasant!" he scolded, raising his head in an exaggerated huff.

Musichetta's laughter rang even harder, quickly followed by everyone else's including Courfeyrac's. From the corner of his eye, Enjolras noticed the faint colour that had settled on Marius's cheeks at the indirect compliment.

It wasn't the sunniest evening they could have hoped for, but at least the white, fluffy clouds seemed to keep more threatening ones at bay. The group began to make its way down to the Musain, Combeferre's arm wrapped around Courfeyrac's waist and Chetta's fingers comfortably intertwined with Joly's. Lost among those affectionate couples, Enjolras and Marius promptly took up their last conversation where they had left it off. A couple days ago, the latter had offered to lend him his notes on foreign politics, which Enjolras had been looking forward to read, especially that part about the Judeo-Palestinian conflict they had talked about at great length when Marius had come over. But he found himself incapable to focus on the subject. Something else was weighing on his mind, something louder than Marius's words could ever be. 

He had not seen Grantaire since that night. When he had gone back to the bedroom, all giddy and flustered, he had pretended to go to sleep right away to avoid any kind of awkwardness. Tucked in the covers, protected but a secure cocoon of sheets, he had pressed his green piece of cloth against his heart, his hammering pulse reverberating through his body, throbbing so hard that Enjolras had felt like the covers would give him away. He had answered Grantaire questions by non-commital hums and little "I'm fine"s that had felt like half-lies. As he had been drifting into unconsciousness, he could have sworn someone had gently stroked his hair, but between the fever and his own imagination, there had been no way to tell.

The faint hum of music began to fill the air as they turned around the corner. They passed a man playing the trumpet for a small audience and a bit further, Combeferre insisted on listening to a string quartet. As the group humoured him, Enjolras caught his own reflection in a shop window. His hair was desperately going in every direction in spite of his best efforts. He tried to tame the mane with a furious hand but to no avail. They walked passed an improvised dancefloor with a DJ blasting electro with such fervour that they had to wait an another block before they could hear each other again. Once the angry beat had been rendered to a vague throbbing in the background, another tune took its place. Enjolras stopped dead. Something about it sounded awfully familiar.

"Wait.. Isn't that..?"

"Jehan?" Joly finished. "Yup! Come on now, we're going to miss the show!"

With a chuckle, he went to take Enjolras by the arm and led him forward. The unexpected vigour of the pulll almost made him lose balance. Where did Joly even hide this kind of strength?

The Musain was still a couple of streets away, and though Enjolras had never set foot in the bar per say, he could feel himself drawn towards it by the beating of the drums. The notes and Jehan's voice got more intense as they walked up the first street. Was it just him or have they really quickened their pace? Courfeyrac had started to scamper at some point and Enjolras realised he was now the one dragging Joly, the latter struggling to keep up on his little legs. Just a street corner and...

It was like stepping into a concert hall in the middle of a representation and taking the music like a slap across the face. The walls that had previously soundproofed most of it were behind them now, leaving no barrier between them and the loud tune large amps were carrying out. The stage was far from being professional, Enjolras could tell, but the spotlights were still bright enough for it to look decent. No, more than decent. Cool, in a free-and-easy, devil-may-care kind of way.

Considering how the crowd had huddled by the stage, the show must have started without them and for a while now. They tried to clear a path through the horde, sending Combeferre as an easy enough to locate scout due to his height. Enjolras's arm still locked with Joly's, the duo shoved about ten people and spilt a couple of beers before catching up with their beacon, apologizing along the way to faceless strangers already lost in the crowd. From here, the music was so loud and intense that it had taken hold of his chest and throat, reverberating throughout his body down to his fingers. The Jehan performing on stage was lightyears away from the Jehan he had become used to. If calm, thoughtful Jehan had been given 15 Redbulls and 5 espressos, he still wouldn't have stood comparison with the one running from one end of the platform to the other, jumping up and down, holding his mic as though he had come out of the womb with it. Hadn't it been for the leather skinny jeans and tye-dye tanktop, Enjolras would have placed his money on a double or a long lost twin.

His gaze drifted towards the "Romantics" part of Allan, Edgar, Poe & the Romantics. With his head bent in concentration, it was hard to determine whether or not Grantaire had closed his eyes to focus on the music. Enjolras would have cursed the hair falling over his face and blocking his sight if he had not also felt the urge to bury his hand in it. His fingers clenched at the thought. His eyes trailed down to Grantaire's neck and followed the outline of his body, his t-shirt giving a hint of a shoulder as the fabric glided along his collarbone with the bassist's movements.

By the time Enjolras came back to his senses, the music had stopped and been replaced by a cheerful clamour. On his left, Courfeyrac and Musichetta were clapping frenetically, whistling their approval to the performers while, on stage, Jehan was bowing overzealously, lifting the hem of his tanktop. Bossuet's laughter could be heard through the amps, filling the atmosphere with his warmth. Another voice rang to his ears at the same time, though "ring" wasn't how Enjolras would have described it. "Roar" was definetly closer to the truth.

"You owe me a beer, you clumsy bastard!"

Enjolras jumped, unprepared to suffer so many decibels at once. For a second, he thought one of the unfortunate beer drinkers had followed his trail to ask him to make amends for their overpriced lager. Bahorel's shit-eating grin was a far more pleasant sight.

"What?"

"My beer," he repeated, giving him a pat on the back strong enough to give his rib cage the desire to recoil on itself. Strange, for a physiotherapist. Then again, he probably knew just how much strength was too much strength and aimed for the slightly watered-down version. "I saw you guys dashing just under my nose and next thing I know my cup gets trampled by the masses."

"I teamed up with Joly on that one," Enjolras confessed.

"I saw that yeah, except I'm not going to extort _Joly_ , what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"Fair enough."

They both just had the time to let out a chuckle before a loud larsen effect destroyed what was left of Enjolras's eardrums. Ironically, Bossuet's voice followed :

"Argh - shit! - sorry!"

There was a bit of fumbling for the right frequency before the dummer finally put them out of their misery.

"Thanks, dudes and dudettes and... well, everybody, really. We'll be back in a minute, just the time for our singer to summon his "ardeur"."

A loud laugh ran through the audience. Bahorel wrapped his arm around Enjolras's shoulders.

"Perfect! That gives you time to offer me compensation and beg for my forgiveness! Plus there's a certain ginger on refreshment stall duty tonight."

Still holding him by the shoulders, Bahorel led him through the crowd one quick stride after another. For a moment, all Enjolras could see was the big bright letters spelling "Musain" above the legion of people blocking his sight. Something about Bahorel obviously screamed "get out the way", given how people tended to take a step back at their approach, creating a neat and clear path for them walk through. They eventually reached a sparser gathering, mostly hanging around the refreshment stall like wasps around an unattended jar of jam. Feuilly, busy pouring beer after beer for a group of kids Enjolras wasn't even sure were over 18, noticed them the second they stepped out of the crowd. His Bahorel senses must have been tingling.

" _Again?!_ " he scolded, frowning at his boyfriend's grin.

"What can I say, it's a hot summer's evening and I have to keep hydrated!" the latter laughed, leaving Enjolras's side to slip behind the makeshift bar counter.

Without a care in the world, he proceeded to pour himself a beer in a large plastic cup, stealing a kiss on Feuilly's cheek.

"Seducing the barman is unethical and there's no way in hell you're getting that one for free," Feuilly retorted, opening his palm to get the money he was due.

"Put it on my tab."

"It's not a fucking tab if it has three digits, you bloated genital wart, it's a goddamn outrage!"

Bahorel received a playful yet firm punch on his side that spilt a bit of his new beer. Since there was no getting around it, he eventually got a 5€ note out of his back pocket and buried it into Feuilly's palm before lifting that very hand up to kiss it.

"Here you go, settled"

"Gros, that's just a drop in the ocean," Feuilly snorted, though his face lit up with a small half smile. "Enj', can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm alright, thanks. There's something I wanted to talk to you about though, but I guess now is not the best time."

People had taken advantage of the short interlude to queue up behind him, their empty cups waiting to be refilled. Behind him, Enjolras heard a couple of loud beats, sign that the next song was imminent.

"I finish in a couple hours!" Feuilly said, trying to cover up the notes that were hanging in the air. He practically had to shout to be heard over the chorus. They had to do this quickly, any attempt at communication would soon become impossible with Jehan's singing in the background. "I'll catch up with you and we'll see then!"

"Yeah, sure, I-"

The voice rising from the amps wasn't Jehan's. Not by any stretch of imagination. It was as though the sound waves had travelled all this way to hit him on the back of his head and knock him down. Slowed down by his own stupefaction, Enjolras turned over.

On stage, Grantaire was leaning against the mic stand, his foot beating out the fast rhythm. His voice was surreal through the resonance of the amps, incredibly loud and clear, assailling a defenseless Enjolras. The latter gaped at the scene. The lyrics didn't even make sense to him. There was too much to _see_ to divide parts of his attention towards anything else. " _just the time for our singer to summon his "ardeur"_ ", Bossuet's voice whispered in his head. His "ardeur". "R-deur"... He should have seen it coming, and yet he had been taken off-guard.

In a daze, Enjolras didn't even feel his feet moving towards the jumping, singing crowd. A forest of arms had risen, blocking the view from what was happening on stage. Enjolras caught glimpses of Grantaire and Eponine sharing the mic to sing parts of the chorus. Grantaire wiping away the sheen of sweat that had settled on his forehead. Grantaire turning the mic towards the audience, a broad smile on his lips. A smile Enjolras had never seen him sport before. He looked so... intoxicated with the music, drunk on the feeling of the stage beneath his feet.

The beat of the drums mirrored the beat of his heart. He wasn't even sure which was which anymore. He was still working his way through the crowd when the instruments stopped playing, Grantaire's voice filling the air and his mind. When did he stop breathing? His feet stopped, struck down by the overwhelming sight and melody. And when the beat dropped, something within him exploded.

* * *

The circle they had established in Parc des Buttes de Chaumont was still five persons short when 11PM stroke. They had been there for an hour now, sat on the grass, relaxing their poor legs that had suffered from standing up for too long. The night had started its slow descent on the Parisian sky, lighting up the nearby lampposts, painting the grass a darker shade of green with each passing minute.

Back to back, Enjolras was listening to Courfeyrac's tale of their last Fête de la Musique, something he happened to vaguely remember. It was as though he knew what words were going to come out of Courf's mouth a mere second before they did. It was more and more frequent and though these memories were nothing but fleeting, they were still something. His head on his boyfriend's lap, Combeferre was lying next to Joly, their gaze turned towards the night sky in a quest for this or that constellation. Enjolras did hear a friendly argument between the two of them at some point ("Stop calling it "Great Bear", it's Ursa Major" "You're the one I can't bear right now!" "Oh my god.") but his astronomical knowledge being akin to a cosmic void, he chose not to interfere.

Courfeyrac was in the middle of recollecting an eventful adventure involving Eponine, a broccoli and an "absolutely not stolen car" when he stopped to nudge Enjolras. The latter followed his meant-to-be-discreet-but-really-wasn't nod towards Musichetta, Bahorel, Marius and Cosette. The little group had busied itself with the task of collecting every daisy available in a 10m² radius half an hour ago and was now crafting little crowns out of them. Not getting his drift, Enjolras furrowed.

"What?" he whispered.

"What do you mean "what?"," Courf breathed out urgently. "Can't you see my little motherflubber right there?"

Enjolras looked again, confused. Musichetta was trying to teach Bahorel how to weave daisy stems together, guiding the blunt fingers as best as she could.

"Who, Bahorel?"

The dull sound of Courfeyrac's palm landing on his forehead earn him a chuckle.

"Oh my god you ridiculously blind sausage! Marius! Wooing Cosette from here 'til sunday!"

On his left, Marius was listening to Cosette, nodding gently, his gaze meeting the grass a lot more than her own, a blissful smile plastered onto his lips. In spite of the dim lighting, Enjolras spotted a couple of daisies in his hair, probably planted there by Cosette's very hand. The latter, on the other hand, sported a field of flowers within her blond locks.

"I've been pep-talking him for months now," Courfeyrac whispered proudly. "Look at him, he doesn't even look like he's going to faint."

Enjolras looked at Marius running a hand through his hair, laughing at what Cosette had just told him. Now that Courf was mentioning it Enjolras didn't know how something this obvious could have flown over his head. But most importantly, if Marius was standing out a mile, how obvious was _he_? Would Courfeyrac end up pep-talking _him_ , giving him advice on how to approach Grantaire? Oh lord he hoped not.

"Hope you saved me a couple daisies."

Feuilly's voice startled him. He left the sight of Marius and Cosette giggling about God knew what to raise his head toward his friend. Enjolras brought his knees back against his chest to free the spot in front of him.

"Done for the night, Feuilly?" Combeferre asked.

"Done is the word, yeah," Feuilly laughed breathlessly, his knees cracking as he crouched down to take his place into the circle. "You wouldn't believe how many pre-teens tried to coax me into serving them booze."

"Did you help yourself to the stash, though?" Mushichetta quipped.

Feuilly shrugged, flashing a sly smile.

"Nothing too noticeable."

The conversations resumed right after Bahorel's booming laughter had filled the atmosphere. Leaning back on his elbows, the newcomer turned towards Enjolras.

"What did you want to talk about then?"

"I wanted to ask you for a favour, actually."

He had been thinking about this for a while now. Everybody else were pulling their weight, Courfeyrac at the bistro, Eponine at a local newspaper, Marius tutoring kids... He couldn't sit on his ass any longer. Recovery was all well and good, but there was so much TV a man could endure before losing his sanity. And since Feuilly seemed to be the go-to guy for this kind of thing...

"I need a job. Like... nothing serious. But something to do."

"Your job is to heal," Joly's voice rose behind him, his earnest tone matching Combeferre's to perfection.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He appreciated the concern, he really did, but he wasn't a sugar cube left outside in the rain. There had been enough focus on him and his health those past weeks for a lifetime.

"I'm _fine_. I've watched every single rerun of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Law  & Order, I've slept, I've taken my meds. I'm not asking to lift pieces of furniture for eight hours a day! I just want something to _do_."

He gave a pleading look in Feuilly's direction. Feeling like a giant waste of potential was slowly but steadily driving him mad, though he chose to keep this part to himself. His life had already become too much of a pity party as it was. 

Feuilly seemed to consider his words carefully, his gaze lost in the distance, before nodding slowly.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

To be honest, Enjolras had expected more resistance.

"Feuilly are you sure..?" Combeferre started, but Feuilly stopped him, raising an open palm.

"The man wants a job, a job he shall have. He's been doing great so far, there's no reason why it should stop there."

Enjolras felt a warm surge of gratitude filling his chest. Finally.

"Nothing too wild though," Feuilly added. "I have to find something this bad boy won't get in the way of"

He knocked on his cast with a smile.

Eponine, Bossuet, Jehan and Grantaire joined the little committee shortly after, under a thunder of applause and cheer from the circle. Bossuet went to lie down next to Joly, Musichetta adorning his head with a crown of daisies along the way while Eponine and Grantaire took place next to Feuilly. As for Jehan, he decided to put some of them to contribution, resting his head on Enjolras's lap, his legs on Feuilly's and his feet on Grantaire's. The improvised human couch seemed to do the trick, considering the satisfied grin he was flashing.

"Let's get this after-party going!" Eponine sang, getting two bottles of what Enjolras guessed to be hard liquor out of her bag.

They passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth - except Joly's, since he categorically refused to drink after anyone - making their way around the circle. Enjolras observed Grantaire taking a generous gulp from the corner of his eye before diverting his gaze. He couldn't stare without blushing out of his wits, not when Grantaire was this dishevelled, hot rockstar mess. Enjolras had been thankful to Musichetta when she had suggested sitting in the park earlier, leading them away from the stage. He could never have found the strength to leave the hypnotising sight he had been subjected to otherwise. At least now the relative darkness was enough to hide his fluster.

"Why 'Allan, Edgar, Poe & the Romantics', though?" he asked, to give himself something else to think about. "Isn't it Edgar Allan Poe?"

"I like alphabetically ordered things," Jehan shrugged.

" 'Impossibly lame name' is also in alphabetical order," Eponine laughed.

"So is 'Screw you' my dear," he retorted with a shit-eating grin.

One of the bottles - orange vodka, apparently - got into his hand, and as he was about to give it away to Courfeyrac, Enjolras felt a tug on his shirt. Looking down, he found Jehan with his mouth wide open.

"Really?" he smirked

"Make it rain!"

Jehan had surely overestimated his aiming skills because half of what had been meant for his mouth went down his chin and neck. Of course, the fact that they were both laughing like overgrown babies didn't help either.

"Tsss what a waste," Grantaire sighed.

"Orange vodka tastes like medicine anyway," Jehan shrugged.

"Excuse you, I'll have you know that orange vodka is high in vitamin C, _I_ am thinking about your health, my good sir!"

Combeferre snickered. Smiling, Enjolras raised his hand to his hair but stopped half-way. No. The image of Marius doing the exact same thing popped in his brain like a blinking red flag. He lowered his hand awkwardly and focus on Jehan, busy fanning his now soaked tanktop. For a second, Enjolras thought the colourful partner had run from the fabric onto his skin when he spotted a blue stain on his friend's torso but as he squinted, he made out the shape of a flower. Several of them, actually.

"I didn't know you had tattoos," he mused.

"Mmmh? Oh, this?"

Jehan pulled back the tanktop to show him the whole thing. A delicate red flower was running along his solar plexus, its stem intertwined with another, a blue one that was dancing to the rhythm of his breathing, like the wind sways a barley field. A third -a daisy, the only one Enjolras recognized - was right on his heart.

"I got them a few months ago. R drew them for me."

Enjolras cast a quick look at Grantaire as the latter was raising his bottle. _Shit_ was he wearing eye-liner?!

"That's.. They're great! Really great!" he managed to articulate, catching up with his train of thought.

"One of his finest work, if I may say! Not as good as the one on Bossuet's ass but-"

"Speaking of ass.." Courfeyrac groaned out of the blue.

Taken aback, Enjolras furrowed. What? He followed his best friend's gaze towards the nearest lamppost and the man nonchalantly leaning against it. The hard light was projecting shadows over his face, sharpening his features and the dark void around his eyes. The leather jacket he was wearing didn't help the whole overwhelmingly threatening look thing, on the contrary. Somehow, Enjolras could tell he was attractive, but in the same way a wolf or a panther was.

It took him a while to realise Jehan had left his lap.

"Have you ever seen Montparnasse's ass, though?" Eponine snorted.

"Pfiouu, tell me about it! One juicy bouncy castle if I've ever seen one!" Jehan giggled, clapping his hands together while gathering his stuff. "On that note, fervent admirers, I wish I could stay but I have an appointment with that little thing called love!"

Enjolras felt Courfeyrac shifting nervously behind him. Jehan settled his bag on his shoulder.

"Oh, before I go! Enj' digs the tattoo, R! Told you it was a masterpiece!"

All smiles, he skipped out of the circle, his bag hitting his leg along the way, under Enjolras's outraged gaze. The traitor soon caught up with Montparnasse by the lamppost, offering a very peculiar sight. The Big Bad Wolf and the Little Tye-Dye Riding Hood.

"Glad you liked my nature morte on living skin."

Enjolras turned over to meet Grantaire's eyes. He _was_ wearing eye-liner. How was that even fair? He knew it was just a stage thing, that all the band members were wearing the same kind of thing but still.

"I-er-yeah! It was very life-like. Smelled a bit like orange vodka but what can you do."

"Do you want one?" Grantaire laughed.

Enjolras knew it was a joke. Of course it was one. And yet he felt like a deer in the headlights and the first answer that came to mind was :

"Yeah sure!"

Horrified by his own words, he watched as Grantaire choked on his alcohol. Considering how many times Grantaire had choked because of him, it was a miracle the man was still alive. And to be fair, if Enjolras had had the opportunity to disappear right there and then, he would have taken that chance. He hadn't thought this through. Though, in his defence, thinking rationally in Grantaire's presence was a skill he had yet to master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  ardeur : "enthusiasm" or "fervour". What can I say, Bossuet likes puns and so do I  
> nature morte : a still life in painting  
> This-chapter-was-not-supposed-to-be-this-long-but-meh : a novel by me. I loved writing all the dialogues, I couldn't stop coming up with new ones! This chapter is based on [this text post](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/post/127152619326/jehan-grantaire-eponine-and-bossuet-have-a-band) I made a while back when I was planning this very fic and has grown into a full blown chapter! Not gonna lie, a lot of my own Fête de la Musique experiences went into it  
> The song Grantaire is singing is, of course, Novocaine by Fall Out Boy ;)
> 
> As ever, your feedback is what keep an author and a fic alive so never hesistate to comment and leave kudos, I am always amazed at the nice things I get. And you can always say hi at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) ;)  
> In the meantime I have also written two one shots : [De Lait et de Miel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5097704) & [Chante pour moi, Apollon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4837373) if you want to check them out!


	9. Give it up to Bill Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you all!
> 
> Here we go again! I couldn't resist and put more Feuilly in this chapter because... Well, everything needs more Feuilly anyway. I always like to explore the other Amis on the side because hey, I love those nerds.  
> A big thank to my beta [Sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com/) for putting up with my french ways of writing and well my writing in generalHave a good read!

"Nervous?" Feuilly asked, a slight smirk curling up the corner of his lips.

Oh, he was nervous alright. Enjolras didn't want to fuck this up, even thought Feuilly had told him he had gotten the job, and that without having even met his new boss. It had taken him a week, but his friend had finally rung him up to tell him the good news : Enjolras was now a proud (yet temporary) librarian at a free library on Rue la Fayette. Or at least that's what Feuilly had told him, he had not ventured into details. 200€ a week to read his fill and dust off books on a shelf was a good enough deal for him to accept.

"A bit, yeah.." Enjolras sighed, straightening his back against the uncomfortable chair he was sat on.

His gaze went up to check the stations. The trip from Belleville to the 10th arrondissement was easy enough; it was only a matter of changing station at République towards Gare du Nord, though the whole journey was half an hour long. Standard, really, for Parisian transports. When his gaze lowered back onto Feuilly, Enjolras notice the amused smile on Feuilly's face had widened.

"What are you smiling about?"

"You. I've never seen you nervous before, it's quite fascinating."

Enjolras kicked his foot lightly with a breathless chuckle. He doubted that. He remembered that gut feeling from somewhere else, from some _ **when**_ else, though "what" "where" and "when" were gaps he couldn't fill. Something about exams, he reckoned. And Grantaire. But the extent of his memory stopped there. He had another memory along those lines though, that caused that uneasy feeling to bubble up. It had come back to him a few days ago while rereading old lecture notes :

"Remember that Economic Sociology final we had in L2? Now that's something I was nervous for!" Enjolras smiled

"Really? I thought that was just you and your raging boner for Marx!"

They got off at Gare du Nord under a faint morning drizzle. Enjolras groaned and pulled on his hood, following Feuilly's lead, his hands deeply buried in his pockets. _"Il pleut dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville ; Quelle est cette langueur qui pénètre mon coeur?"_. He had never been one for poetry but Verlaine's lines echoed through him. Rain made the city hard to read, like droplets staining the ink of a beautifully wriite page. It elided details, blurred your vision. It felt like something was missing, an irritable longing.

Thankfully, the pair didn't have to suffer the rain for long. They stopped in front of a small shop squeezed between a real estate agency and a bakery, its modest window reading : "Non mais Diderot!" in golden letters. A bell rang as Feuilly stepped into the library, closely followed by Enjolras.

The interior was warmer and bigger than the exterior let on. Neatly waxed floorboards creaked under Enjolras's steps as the latter was taking the place in, its wooden shelves, the fake lanterns lighting up the room with their balmy golden glow, the pleasant scent of books and cinnamon hanging in the air. He could see himself working here. There had to be something he could read among what seemed to be three rooms worth of paper and ink.

"Mon Père?" Feuilly called, visibly looking for someone among the shelves.

Enjolras furrowed. Who? The corner of a huge cardboard box appeared from behind the "Life Sciences" section, quickly followed by a man carrying it at arm's length. Before Enjolras could make a single move towards him, Feuilly had already strode to his help.

"For God's sake, the doctor said 'no heavy lifting'!" Feuilly cried

"Language, Fee!"

They slowly carried the load past Enjolras, careful not to drop it along the way. The man looked surprisingly strong for his age, Enjolras noticed. How old was he? 65? 70 maybe? His first reflex was to step in, offer his help to the pair, but there wasn't much he could do with his cast. They put the box down onto a table and from his now free hand, the elder gave Feuilly an affectionate pat on shoulder.

"Merci, mon grand."

"No worries. So, this is Enjolras! Enjolras may I introduce you to Père Charles François Bienvenu Myriel, better known as Chacha or Ben to his friends!

"Chacha or Ben" rolled his eyes with an amused smile and held a hand out to Enjolras. Once again, the strength of his grip took him aback as they shook hands. Feuilly definitely had a knack for surrounding himself with knuckle breakers. The man's benevolent smile was enough to ease his nervousness, though.

"Ah! The famous Enjolras! I've heard quite a bit about you, young man! It's nice to finally meet you in person!"

Enjolras blinked. He had? Had Feuilly... talked about him? He sent a surprised glance to his friend, who was reclined against a shelf, a satisfied smile drawn onto his lips. He noticed he was still shaking the man's hand and let it go.

"I-er-you have?" he asked, confused as to what he could have heard. "Nice to meet you too, mon Père," he added.

"No need for that," the other laughed. "Call me Charles, I'm too old for all this religious nonsense."

From what Enjolras came to understand, Feuilly had pretty much told Charles every shenanigan the ABC had gotten up to for the past two years and a half, from demonstrations to helping Cosette with charity bake sales. From the corner of his eye, he surveyed the ecclesiastic's reactions, waiting for a hint of disapproval in the man's voice as he evoked same-sex marriage or other anti-conservative topics. But to his surprise, there was nothing less than pride and good humour in his words. A father telling his friends about his son's latest little league football feats wouldn't have been prouder.

Both Feuilly and Charles talked him through his new set of tasks. He was to answer the phone -though, apparently, it rarely rang-, put books away at their rightful place and update the loan form on the computer when necessary. Nothing too herculean, just as he had promised Joly and Combeferre. He was also deeply encouraged to read the books himself, so he could give recommendations to whoever asked for them. That in itself was enough for Enjolras to classify this job as the best he could have hoped for.

"I'll leave you to it then!" Feuilly said, after introducing Enjolras to the Economics/Politics section. "My shift starts in 20 minutes and I have to catch the métro!"

"Be safe!" the bishop shouted, though the bell above the door had already rang, signalling Feuilly's departure.

Charles shook his head, looking at the empty space.

"Never still, that boy," he sighed, leading Enjolras towards the box on the table. "Even when he was yea-high, always running around, always."

Enjolras furrowed. He did get the feeling that the two of them went way back but he would never have guessed that back. Charles opened the box to reveal a good 30-odd new books to put away on the shelves.

"You knew Feuilly when he was younger?" he asked.

"Oh yes! They placed him at the orphanage when he was what? Three, maybe four. I was in charge of the place at the time. He was a nice kid, everybody could tell. But angry, so angry."

Enjolras's gaze followed the priest as the latter started to sort the books out in the right sections. Feuilly as a turbulent child had never crossed his mind, and though he felt like prying to get more information on his friend, he had to admit the glimpse of Feuilly's childhood had sparked his interest. He looked down at the books he was holding : something by Proust and a handful of Maupassants. Enjolras made for the big "Littérature Française" sign.

"See," Charles continued, "some kids... They live it pretty badly, to be orphaned. They feel abandoned, alone. We try to be a family to them but... it never really does the trick, deep down, the poor souls."

He couldn't put words on how he felt about this conversation, but "comfortable" was definitely not one of them. The thought of a tiny Feuilly, miserable and recluse, was enough to send a bitter pang to his heart. But the priest's voice was so compassionate that it somehow made it... bearable.

"He looks better now, tough, I can tell" Charles smiled and Enjolras felt his shoulder relax. "He's found a real family. Better late than never."

Enjolras felt himself grinning, his hand halfway between Balzac and Chateaubriand.

* * *

A nice routine quickly settled. His alarm would ring at 8AM and he would get up to a warm cup of coffee waiting for him in the kitchen along with Combeferre. The latter's departure would be promptly followed by Courfeyrac and his legendary bedhead and the pair would settle on the couch for breakfast. At 9:20AM sharp, Enjolras would meet Eponine by the métro entrance and travel with her up to Gare du Nord. From 10AM and 7PM, he would spend his time surrounded by books and -hopefully- silent readers. He would plunged into heavy volumes unless his assistance was required. He liked this job. It made him feel useful. In the span of a single week, he had helped a handful history buffs through the "Histoire de France" section, some retired people really into gardening and cabbages and countless idlers in need of distraction. His only regret was that summer was keeping students at bay.

Well, not all students. Combeferre and Joly would often pass by to say hello, pretending be to here for books or medical articles, slipping a question or two about how he would be feeling on that day. Enjolras would just smile and let them doctor him, more for their sake than his own. He had learnt not to argue with med students; sometimes they were worse than overbearing mothers.

But they weren't his most frequent company. No, that title went to Marius. He had seen more of the man in a week than he had this past month, and that was saying something. He would come between his tutoring hours and they would either talk about politics or just sit and revel in their readings. Marius, shy and awkward at first glance, turned out to be much more passionate that Enjolras could have ever imagined, which made his company all the more welcome.

Enjolras was drowning into a book about the signification of flowers one afternoon, when a question lodged itself in the back of his skull, refusing to leave. It was one of those days when they were both reclined in comfortable armchairs, reading their fill about whatever they were interested in that day. Marius had found a gold mine of academic articles on Shakespeare and had not raised his head from them for what seemed to be hours. And though Enjolras was certain Marius wouldn't _care_ about his curious choice of literature, he had still pulled open a volume on Marxist theories over the horticultural one. He had been looking at flowers and their meanings for a good hour now, unable to retain anything from one page to the next. This tattoo proposal had stuck with him since the Fête de la Musique and he intended to deliver a design, come what may. Even if it meant shying away from the needle at the very last second, the plan was first and foremost to spend time with Grantaire. And without an idea, there was no designer. Sure he could have come up with another reason to hang out, but the idea of Grantaire drawing something especially for him was more than seducing. Maybe he'd draw on his very skin... The thought had crossed his mind more than once, imaginary fingers running along his arms. A seducing idea indeed.

He had been debating with himself for ten solid minutes when he finally let his curiosity get the better of him :

"Marius? Can I ask you a question?"

Marius unplugged from Shakespeare, blinking as though his eyes needed to adjust back to reality.

"Mmh? Er-Yeah sure!"

At a sudden loss for word, Enjolras stared at Marius, his mouth half open. How was he even going to formulate this? He cleared his throat, trying to put together the puzzle of his thoughts.

"How did you know you were in love with Cosette? I mean," he paused. "How did you _know_?"

So much for subtlety, but he needed to ask. He would have asked Courfeyrac, but it would have been giving himself away. Courfeyrac would have bounced around with glee, showering him with question like "who is it?" and he was not remotely ready for that. As for Combeferre, well... He might as well ask Courfeyrac directly, as the two of them couldn't lie to each other, not even the tiniest white lies such as "who finished the last box the cereal?". No, Marius was the safest bet.

In his armchair, Marius was pulling off his best impression of a chinese lantern. His fingers clenched on the papers he was holding. Maybe too blunt, Enjolras thought. But at least the question was out.

"I-I don't.. How..?" Marius began, mortified.

Enjolras opted for a different strategy. Telling Marius that guessing his feelings for Cosette was easier than finding Waldo at a nudist camp would have been the end of him. The poor man already had his back to the wall, there was no need to knock the wall down.

"Courfeyrac told me," he answered.

That in itself wasn't a lie. Courfeyrac _had_ told him, after all. Marius relaxed on his seat, visibly relieved, though his cheeks were still bright red.

"Oh. I-I thought I was too... well you know, obvious. Do you think _she_ knows, though?"

To be fair, Enjolras was convinced half of Paris knew, but as for Cosette, his guess was as good as Marius's. Better indulge his friend with reassuring words, he reckoned. Plus, considering how tight he was squeezing the articles in his fists, it was also a matter of preserving XVIth century literary criticism.

"I don't think so. I mean, if Courf hadn't told me, I'd still be in the dark for sure! Honest." he said, before adding : "So? How did you knew?"

Marius cleared his throat for what seemed to be a good minute. Enjolras let him gather himself, he was the one responsible for his sudden fit of timidity after all.

"Well, she makes me feel warm. Inside. She's a star, burning far far away and yet casting her light and her warmth right on me."

"And doesn't it feel like... I don't know, blinding?" Enjolras asked, drawing on the light metaphor Marius had plunged into head first. He might as well stretch it thin.

"No. No it really doesn't," the latter smiled, more to himself than anyone else. "It's peaceful. It feels right."

Enjolras sunk deeper into his armchair. He knew what Marius meant. He knew about the warmth. It had filled his chest completely the other night, in the kitchen, when he had giggled for absolutely no reason other than that sensation. But it wasn't peaceful. It was restless. He was always aware of Grantaire when he was in his vicinity, he noticed his every move from the corner of his eye, registered his every word. He knew the tone of his voice by heart because it was exactly what made it race. Loving Grantaire wasn't peaceful. It was a rollercoaster, except he was on a garden chair and had no safety bar. Yet he loved it all the same.

"Why?" Marius asked, his question pulling him back down to earth so violently that he might as well have grabbed his collar with both hands.

"Just-I-No reason. I was just wondering, is all," he managed, stammering his way through.

Marius cast a suspicious look in his direction, but if he had any doubts, he didn't voice them. At least one of us is considerate, Enjolras thought. But there was another question that was going round and round in his head and while they were at it...

"I was just wondering if I had ever been with someone. I mean four years is a long time. Did I ever mention someone to you or anybody for that matter?" he said hesitantly.

Again, he would have asked Courf hadn't he been the best of his kind to unearth hidden meanings. That guy had seen too many stupid romantic comedies for his own good. And Enjolras's. With his readings finally secure on his lap, Marius tilted his head, deep in thought. Apparently, the recap of his love life didn't need an extensive rewind and replay because it took him about ten second before reaching a conclusion :

"Not that I'm aware of." Marius said

Enjolras nodded faintly. So he hadn't told anyone or given himself away. If his best friends had known something, anything, they would have raised the issue a long time ago. Now how on Earth had be managed to keep the whole love thing secret? Had he lost the capacity to keep himself together in Grantaire's presence in the accident? That contradicted his current situation. It seemed that he would come undone the second Grantaire stepped into the same room as him! He almost regretted the time they had spent avoiding each other, at least it prevented any kind of cringe-worthy embarrassments on his part.

"I'm sorry, maybe that's not the answer you wanted to hear," Marius apologised, visibly concerned by Enjolras's lack of reaction.

"No, it's alright," he said. "I wasn't expecting anything anyway. Just, you know, putting the pieces together."

He gave Marius what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

"Maybe you should write stuff down. Anything you remember, even if it doesn't seem important. Maybe some things would come back to you."

"Yeah, the chapter on my love life would be called "The Waste Land"."

If Marius didn't know whether to be scandalised on his friend's behalf or to break into a fit of laughter, Enjolras didn't wait for him to burst into a warm laugh. Marius had finally decided to join in when the bell above the door rang. Still smiling from ear to ear, the pair turned towards the entrance. Their grins froze on their faces.

There is a situation that is worse than having your crush unexpectedly barging into the room you're in. It is having your crush and your friend's crush barging into the room you're both in. At the same time. Cosette and Grantaire-blissfully unaware of the panic they had summoned-quickly found their hiding spot, no matter how deeply they had buried themselves into their armchairs. Enjolras cast a knowing glance at Marius. He looked like defenceless fawn about to become roadkill. "Peaceful" my ass, Enjolras thought. 

"Hello there!" Cosette's voice sang as she bent down to Enjolras's level and gave him a kiss on each cheek.

She then went to give the same (though slightly longer) greeting to Marius, taking advantage of the comfortable armrest to settle by his side. By the time Enjolras caught sight of Grantaire again, the latter had pulled up a chair right in front of him. He tried not to notice the many coloured stains speckling his hands or the exact spot on his neck where his lips would fit perfectly, but to no avail. The fact that he was the only one aware of how weird this situation was struck him. It was like an impromptu double date except he was the only party conscious of it.

"You were in the area?" he heard himself asking, as though his brain had taken upon itself to shift to autopilot mode.

"Not even close, my good Sir," Grantaire yawned, slumping over his chair. "I paid my métro ticket right from my pocket to see your sorry mugs!"

"Grantaire, you jumped over the turnstile," Cosette addedwith an amused sigh.

"Don't diminish my grand gesture!"

Oh it didn't diminish it, not in the least. Knowing that Grantaire had spent 30 minutes in public transports just to see his "mug" was closer to a compliment that one would ever expect. Secretly pleased, Enjolras tried to control his discreet smile, losing somewhat the discussion thread. Something about the weather he reckoned.

"Still set on that tattoo, then?" Grantaire asked, his eyes suddenly fixed on him.

_Shit._

"I-yeah! I've been thinking about it!" Enjolras replied, a bit too enthusiastically to his taste.

Grantaire left his lounging position to bend forward, closer. So much closer. Enjolras could smell the scents of paint, honey and apples all around him, something strangely familiar. He couldn't quite place it but he had smelled that exact mix before.

"I'm listening," Grantaire said, settling his elbows on his knees, his hands cupping his cheeks. Having his undivided attention was unnerving.

"Flowers, maybe? I really like Jehan's so I thought my arm would be a good place, once they remove my cast?"

"Flowers?" he repeated, with something that sounded an awful lot like disbelief in his voice.

"Yeah, flowers. Why?" Enjolras frowned.

Grantaire reclined back on his seat, leaving the space between them terribly empty.

"No, flowers are _great_ , don't get me wrong. I just thought you'd ask for something more,” He paused, searching for the right word. “French. Like a flag on your biceps."

"Or a rooster on your thigh," Cosette added.

"Or 'Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité' on your collarbones," Marius chuckled.

Visibly, the three of them were holding back their laughter, Enjolras's expression displaying the most enjoyable of spectacle. He sunk in his armchair, pouting just for the hell of it.

"What's wrong with a rooster, anyway?" he grumbled

The roar that followed earned them a reproving "shush" from more quiet readers. Once she had finished biting her lips to stop herself from laughing, Cosette turned to Marius, fetching the paper resting on his lap with delicate fingers.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh-er-Some stuff on Shakespeare, plays and all that," he answered, a hand rubbing his neck as though the spotlight of Cosette attention was too much to bear.

"Oh! What play?"

Suprisingly, this didn't come from Cosette but from Grantaire. And it wasn't any conversational tone either, no, it was genuine interest.

"Richard II."

"Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings," Grantaire declared, slamming his palm against his heart.

If there was one thing Enjolras would never have taken Grantaire for, it's was a classic literature fan. Art, sure, that much was established. Music as well, he had seen him in action. Literature... Sure he would have pictured him with an Orwell or two on his shelf but _Shakespeare?!_ What was next? _Dancing_? There was so much he could take!

"I've never heard of that one," Cosette mused.

"Me neither," Enjolras confessed. He wasn't one for literature anyway. Theories, critical thinking, essays, that was up his alley. Symbolism interwoven with words, similes, images and vague metaphors, not so much.

Grantaire seemed offended down to the depths of his soul : 

"And you call yourselves educated?” he exclaimed. “The historical plays are awesome! It's like the Tudors, but better!"

"I've only ever studied Romeo and Juliet in high school," Cosette pouted. She cleared her throat and stood up, leaving Marius and the armchair, though Marius's gaze never left her a single second. "My true-love passion: therefore pardon me; and not impute this yielding to light love which the dark night hath so discovered," she recited, exaggerating her performance with big hand gestures, twirling and fluttering her eyelashes in Grantaire's direction.

Grantaire needn't be told twice before going full-on Romeo and dropping to his knees, taking Cosette's hand in his, pressing it against his cheek. Mesmerised, Enjolras kept watching the pretend couple.

"Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops."

He waited for her to say something but nothing came. Instead, she patted his cheek with good humour.

"I can't remember the rest silly, it was six years ago!" she chuckled.

Grantaire shook is head and tilted it on the side so he could see Marius.

"Marius, care to help here?"

Enjolras saw him take a deep breath. He would have given him a "I'm rooting for you" kind of look, but the new Juliet prompter was't looking at _him_.  


"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon," he prompted in a single flow, not taking the time to articulate properly under the pressure.

"O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon," Cosette repeated, picking her role where she had left off.

Enjolras watched them, conflicted between the sight of Marius and Grantaire. The latter had sprung up to his feet, gently swaying Cosette left and right to the rhythm of his words, the lines flowing out of his mouth as though they were coming out of his very soul. Enjolras could not even call himself jealous he was just utterly enthralled. He did wonder at some point if he wasn't blatantly gaping at them, but luckily, his dignity had survived this far. 

"O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" Romaire asked Julette, right before the real Grantaire took over : "Come on Pontmercy, your turn. I've professed too much love for a week already! I'll take Cosette's lines!"

Marius looked like he was going to explode soon. Enjolras could feel how tense he was three yards away. But to his surprise as much as Marius's, the hand Cosette rested gently on Marius's cheek seemed to give him enough courage to begin : 

"The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine," Marius recited, his voice trembling but clearly audible.

It struck him. He had done it on purpose, Enjolras was positive about that. Grantaire knew where he had been going from the start. This time, Enjolras did gape, seeking Grantaire's gaze as he whispered Juliet’s lines to Cosette. Grantaire’s side little smile was proof enough.

 

"I gave thee mine before thou didst request it," Cosette smiled, repeating the words carefully.

"And yet I would it were to give again.." Grantaire muttered, loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

Their gaze finally met, amused for Grantaire's, admiring for Enjolras's, both knowing what was at hand. A violent pounding in his heart echoed the prompter's cheeky wink and he lowered his eyes not to give himself away. Down in his hands, he found the familiar sight of the book he had been reading earlier. "Gardenias : Secret Love". Well. He could have a hundred of those and more on his skin and it wouldn't even begin to cover it.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **L2 :** Second year of university  
>  **"Il pleut dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville" :** A famous poem by Paul Verlaine that, and I am delighted to say, fits perfectly into the narrative, I was SO glad. You can find the translation [right here](http://allpoetry.com/Il-Pleure-dans-mon-Coeur) ;)  
>  **"Non mais Diderot" :** Is a pun between the expression "Non mais dis donc!" (a very reproving "Hey!" or "For god's sake!") and Diderot, the famous contributor to the first french encyclopaedia. I still like puns. A lot  
>  **"Merci, mon grand" :** basically "Thank you son"  
>  **Père :** Father, in the religious way
> 
> Don't ask me why but the idea of having Grantaire tricking Marius and Cosette into reciting Romeo and Juliet to each other warmed my heart and I couldn't not include it :') I'm sure you already know this but the text comes from the balcony scene.  
> Also : Yes, Rue La Fayette because I'm also Hamilton trash in addition to Les Mis, who knew. I even made a little map the the Belleville/Rue La Fayette to go the extra mile [right here](http://img11.hostingpics.net/pics/43843152kh.png)
> 
> On lesser great news, exam season is coming to get me and I have papers due, so many papers due, so if you don't see me updating, I'm not giving this fic up, I am just focusing on university for a little while to come back with more pining and who knows what surprises (I do. I know what surprises. So many)
> 
> Be an upstanding citizen and let me know yours thoughts in the comment section or you can always hit me up at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) :3


	10. 14th of July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh oh oh and I wish you all a happy holiday season! :3  
> This may be the frenchiest chapter as of yet, for the good reason that it's set on Bastille day so... Get your tiny french flags out people!  
> Have a good read!!  
> And thank you to [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com) for watching out for my mistakes :3

Enjolras's cast was to be removed just in time for the national holiday. He learnt the good news during one of his usual check-ups from a jolly Joly. The scrubs he was wearing, despite being a size too big, gave him a strange air of professional seriousness Enjolras had never associated with Joly. Joly was the man who would laugh so hard his giggles would go silent and he'd have to hold his ribs. Enjolras could hardly believe that Joly was a real life _doctor_. Yet, his friend played the part to perfection, checking the ever-healing scars running along his side, giving him the standardised cognitive tests he had had to do again and again since the accident. All of this under the scrutiny of an actual doctor who seemed more interested in Joly's methodology than the patient himself.

"One more week and we'll finally crack this baby open!" Joly said

"Already?" Enjolras asked, surprised.

He had grown fond of the cast through the weeks. It bore unique artworks created by Jehan-mostly flowers-cat faces from Musichetta, dicks from Courfeyrac and Bossuet, they were memories of a new life he finally felt comfortable with. To be fair, Enjolras didn't even know how one gets rid of a cast. Were they going to slide it along his arm? Were they going to tear it to pieces? Damn, he should have done some research beforehand. Why and when did he even allow himself to get emotionally attached bit of plaster cooping up his arm?

"Well, unless you want to keep it," Joly smiled. "But I gather you owe Courf and Ferre too many chore turns already."

"Fair enough," Enjolras sighed, his fingers tracing the outlines of a beautiful daisy drawn just above his wrist.

"Can I..," he hesitated. Deep down he knew how it was going to sound, but he couldn't help himself. "Can I keep it?"

He felt like a child asking his parents the authorisation to keep a stray cat found in the gutter. Joly's smile widened and he turned towards his superior, as though to ask for confirmation. His curt nod seemed to grant his wishes.

"Yup! Though be warned, casts smell terrible," Joly said, gently lifting Enjolras's arm horizontally. He took a sharpie out of one of his pockets and popped the cap with his thumb. "We're going to saw along that line there.."

Enjolras watched him, his tongue caught between his teeth as he traced a thin dotted line along his cast, avoiding the masterpieces as much as he could. Joly contorted himself to trace another one on the other side.

"And this one. Afterwards, you can always glue them back together! That's what we do with Bossuet's. He's got a whole trophy shelf back at the Palace!"

A week later, on the 13th, Enjolras was back at the hospital for the fateful removal, this time accompanied by Bahorel, who had insisted his presence was absolutely required for physiotherapy purposes.

"I'd better come and see what I'll have to work with," he had argued. "Plus it'll be like 'Massacre à la Tronçonneuse' in there, there's no way I'm missing that."

Enjolras had sworn that he'd pay for each and every single one of his upcoming sessions but Bahorel had dismissed his promise with a warm laugh and a slight (which, for Bahorel, meant a not so slight) punch to the shoulder.

"Don't torture yourself about that! I've got enough with the grandmas I'm patching up on a daily basis!" he had replied.

The whole thing lasted about fifteen minutes, tops. A doctor sat him down in a vacant bedroom and left them there to get the equipment. He came back to witness the feisty outcome of a thumb war that cost Enjolras all sensation in his fingers, but ultimately resulted in his victory. Since neither men seemed to acknowledge his presence, the doctor shut Bahorel's roaring outrage up with a quick roll of his circular saw. Instantly, Enjolras straightened his back. He wasn't one to be scared of needles, but having a saw-as tiny as it was-so close to his skin was a different deal. In his defence, he had seen enough slasher movies with Courfeyrac to know rolling blades were rarely good news.

"Hold out your arm please" the doctor said, taking a seat right next to him.

Enjolras did as he was told, his arms made heavy by the cast and the stress weighing on his shoulders. _Don't move, don't move_ , he kept telling himself. The months of stillness had weakened his limb, something to do with muscle mass, according to Bahorel. He could feel himself shaking under the physical effort.

"Do you want me to hold your hand?" Bahorel asked

Turning his head towards his friend, half glowering already, Enjolras didn't find the smirk he was expecting. On the contrary. Dead serious, Bahorel was already offering his hand for Enjolras to squeeze. A new strident roll of the saw hurried his decision and he grabbed the offered hand like a lifeline. Enjolras felt the saw slicing into the plaster as though it were his own skin and squeezed harder. Slowly, the cut ran from his forearm to his elbow and trailed down to his wrist, leaving a strange feeling of looseness in his arm. _It's finally breathing_ , Enjolras thought. The first cut was soon joined by its twin, and the saw stopped rolling. With a firm grip, the doctor removed both pieces, putting them aside. He then proceeded to get rid of the gauze bandages the cast had been hiding to finally revealed the skin underneath.

If the cold air was what struck Enjolras first, the frailty of his arm came a close second. It looked so _weak_ , like a dangling thing, the branch of a willow in winter. There were still thin scars streaking his limb where it had met the concrete, craquelures on pristine marble. He couldn't see himself lifting the slightest thing with that!

"Here, all done!" the doctor announced, handing him the two pieces of the cast.

Enjolras smiled at him and nodded a quick "thanks", letting go of Bahorel's hand to take the load. He now free arm remained subbornly motionless along his side. He felt reluctant to use it. What if it hurt? What if it was utterly useless? The doctor slipped on a black compression sleeve around his feeble arm and Enjolras felt his stiff muscles ache in protest. After making them promise to pass by the nurses' station before taking off, the physician left them alone in the room.

"Come on, let's tone this baby up!" Bahorel exclaimed enthusiastically.

Positioning himself right in front of Enjolras, he placed his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"Stand up right, your deltoid's gonna need all the support it can get," he prescribed, pressing his thumbs against Enjolras's shoulders. "Good. Now hold out your arm."

 _So the physiotherapy sessions' have already started then_ , Enjolras thought. His bones turned into lead, he complied nonetheless, wincing all the way up to a 90 degree angle.

"Great. Now push against my hand."

Bahorel pressed his hand against Enjolras's, gently pushing it down to test its resistance. Enjolras winced some more, his twitching shoulder begging for mercy. His arm gave up ten mere second later. And though, to him, it felt like a failure, Bahorel's smile seemed to indicate otherwise.

"Good, very good, that's a great start!"

"Are you kidding? You were barely weighing me down!"

"Your arm has been sleeping tight for a while, gros! To get up in the morning, _I_ need 4 cups of coffee, a foot rub and a punch in the face, and I do that everyday! No wonder your arm needs time, give it time to wake up. Now come on, hold out your arm."

* * *

Stern by day and brazen by night, Paris was the place to be on a 14th of July. The firecrackers bursting everywhere, the crowd of Parisians singing and laughing in the streets, the hum of French songs hanging in the air, Enjolras had always loved the atmosphere of the city on that night of the year

Apparently, celebrating the national holiday at the Musain was a tradition. A cluster of tables booked under the name of "Les Amis de l'ABC" had been waiting for them when they had arrived, ready to seat the thirteen of them. Enjolras sat between Courfeyrac and Joly, a strategic choice made for the sole purpose of having Grantaire in his field of vision at all times while keeping a respectable "I-absolutely-don't-have-a-massive-crush-on you" kind of distance between them. A crush. The word felt childish but Enjolras had no idea what else to call it. He did feel like a 10th grader, looking at Grantaire as discreetly as he could manage, stealing glances here and there and diverting his gaze the second he would feel Grantaire look back. He should engage, slip a flirty line or even give the slightest hint his burning interest, but the fear of making things awkward was holding him back. What was going to happen, if Grantaire didn't share his feeling? They were a tight-knit group, tensions wouldn't go unnoticed. The last thing Enjolras wanted was to set them apart.

Whoever was in charge of the music was blasting iconic French tunes from the 80s, filling the dancefloor with giggly dancers and tipsy dorks. Among them, Courfeyrac and Eponine were doing their best to "bring groovy back" with outdating dance moves while Grantaire had taken Jehan for a literal spin, making the latter turn and twirl. Under the spotlights, Jehan's sparkly tank-top was a disco ball of its own. Enjolras tried to contain the fond smile that had settled on his lips but to no avail. He took another sip of his coke and redirected his attention towards the conversation held at the table.

Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet and he were the only ones to have resisted the call of the dancefloor. Huddled at one end of the table, they were busy laughing and downing their drinks.

"Such a shame they gave you a black one," Bossuet told Enjolras, pointing at the latter's compression sleeve. "I usually get the neon green ones. Terrible eyesore but super effective with the ladies."

Joly gave his boyfriend a gentle nudge with his shoulder, laughing wholeheartedly.

"How's your arm though?" Joly asked.

"As good as can be, I guess," Enjolras shrugged.

He had to admit it was less sore than the previous day. It still felt like a set of dusty gears, a rusted mechanism that needed to be oiled up. But at least, for now, he could lift his full glass to his mouth without cringing in pain. Small victories, like Bahorel had told him.

"Can I..?" Joly inquired, gesturing towards the arm sleeve.

Enjolras nodded and the med-student's tentative fingers went to roll the arm sleeve down his forearm, revealing the closing scars. Interested, Bossuet and Combeferre bent forward to take a closer look.

"Wow, gros! That looks so cool!" Bossuet marvelled.

"Reminds me of lightning marks," Combeferre added in awe. "You know, when people get struck by lightning?"

Enjolras looked down at his arm. "Cool" wouldn't have been his first choice of adjective, but given the reactions the pink streaks had aroused, he found his attitude towards them somewhat changed. Yeah. Yeah they _were_ cool. Damn right!

"Enjolras, forged in fire and lightning," Joly giggled. "That has a nice ring to it!"

"I'll raise my glass to that!" Enjolras laughed, lifting his coke.

The others followed before taking a new gulp of their drinks.

"Ever been struck by lightning, Bossuet?" Enjolras asked. Knowing the man, it wasn't a possibility to dismiss.

"Not yet," he sighed, wiping off the foam his Guinness had left on his nose. "It's on my bucket list though, never say never."

"The only thunder you're going to reckon with is Chetta's if you keep leaving your dirty socks everywhere," Grantaire's voice rose from Enjolras's right.

Enjolras's body acted before his brain and he accidentally slammed his glass against the table in loud thump, startling Joly in the process.

"I-sorry, spasm," he apologised quickly.

He turned towards Grantaire, trying to look as natural as he could. At least the beating of the music covered that of his heart. Why did he have to turn his rib cage into a boxing ring? It was ridiculous.

"Gentlemen, what can I get you? I'm heading for the bar, so now's your chance to get a refill without moving that sweet bacon of yours," he asked.

"Another Guinness."

"A cider, R, thank you."

"Make it two."

"I'm alright, thanks," Enjolras finished.

"Alright-o, 'be right back!" their makeshift waiter chuckled, clicking his fingers before turning on his heels towards the bar.

Enjolras watched his silhouette disappear through the crowd of patrons, catching a glimpse of his neck and shoulder under the disco lights. On his right, Ferre, Joly and Bossuet were sharing their past medical experiences, Bossuet from the side of the patients, the other two from that of the doctors'. Enjolras flashed a few smiles to answer theirs, but his presence was more physical than anything else. His attention was focused on the bar, five yards away from them. He eventually spotted the unruly mane of black curls he had been looking for. Leaning on the counter, Grantaire was talking to the barmaid, explaining his order with hand gestures. Enjolras wouldn't have thought much of it if the barmaid _herself_ had not leant in the same fashion, locking eyes with Grantaire in a way Enjolras recognised all too well.

Something raged in his chest. He tried to take another sip of coke but it turned into ink on his tongue. The bitter taste filled his mouth and slid down his throat. He should avert his eyes, he knew it, and yet he stared on. Grantaire had settled a hand under his chin and tilted his head, mirroring the barmaid's enticing smile. Enjolras saw her laughing at something he had said. It wasn't a genuine laugh, he reckoned, it was a "I'm making you think you're funny to better catch you into my web" kind of laugh. He clenched his jaw, not sure how much more he could take. How stupid had he been even, to think he was alone in the universe to notice Grantaire's charm? Why didn't he act sooner? He had had so many occasions already, wasted away in the name of caution.

The second Enjolras caught the barmaid playing with Grantaire's hair, Enjolras had to put his foot down. He stood up and downed the rest of his coke, ignoring the startled looks around him. He was already a few yards away when he heard Combeferre's voice, muffled under the music and the ringing in his ears :

"Where are you going?"

"To get a refill!" he shouted over his shoulder, and stop a goddamn tragedy from happening.

Clearing his way through the dense crowd of dancing, chatting and laughing people was harder than anticipated. Enjolras had to shout a couple of times and step on countless feet in order to make his presence known, but he eventually succeeded in splitting the sea of people in two. The adrenaline and fit of jealousy had straightened his back, so much that when he arrived to the counter, he was towering the lovebirds of a good feet. Enjolras cleared his throat, nailing his empty glass on the hard surface with a loud bang. Recognising him, Grantaire quitted his hunting posture awkwardly. Enjolras had never seen him embarrassed, not really. If anything, Enjolras was the embarrassed one most of the time. He would have found it endearing if he wasn't so irritated. The barmaid, on the other hand, wasn't phased in the least, giving him her most commercial smile.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

"Another coke," he answered, in a tone he tried to keep polite. "Please," he added precipitately.

While she was squatting to reach one of the refridgirated cupboards, Enjolras caught Grantaire's eyes on him. Was he dreaming or did Grantaire look... nervous? Like a child caught red-handed stealing from the cookie jar. The disco lights cast shades of red and green on his face, creating shadows that changed his features completely according on the angle. They made him look older, somehow. Tired even.

"Sorry to kill the mood," Enjolras let out, loud enough for Grantaire to hear.

Grantaire's face furrowed.

"What?"

"I _said_ sorry to kill the-"

"Here you go!" the barmaid interrupted, sliding a tray full of glasses towards Grantaire and a freezing bottle of coke towards Enjolras. 

They both thanked her and, visibly blocked by Enjolras's presence, she stopped barking under Grantaire's tree to clean the counter with a cloth.

"Nice sleeve, by the way," Grantaire commented, to ease the awkwardness.

"Thanks, they give them for free, can you believe it?" Enjolras tried to joke, though he couldn't quite yet part of his curt tone.

They made their way back to the table, side by side, the crowd parting more easily at the sight of Grantaire lifting a tray full spillable stuff. Musichetta had joined the little committee, along with Eponine and the sight of the glasses triggered a loud cheer between the two of them. Grantaire went to sit next to Eponine, placing the tray in the middle for everybody to help themselves.

"How much do I owe you?" Musichetta asked, drawing a sip of her piña colada through her straw.

Eponine reached the tray and took the bill to check the prices. She furrowed her brow for a second, then burst out laughing. "Well someone scored big time with the barmaid!" she smirked, passing the bill to Bossuet wholetout an impressed whistle.

"Femme qui rit, à moitié dans ton lit," he read aloud. "Damn and she even gave you her number!"

Enjolras sunk deeper into his seat, trying his hardest to ignore that last bit of information. The bill went from hand to hand with laughs and amused hums while he held on tight to his bottle. Grantaire sprawled onto his chair with a satisfied smirked.

"This, my friends, is how you get discounts on overpriced drinks! You're welcome!"

The table broke into a round of applause and Grantaire, in false modesty, welcomed the clapping with a little bow. Wait. He had faked it? All of it? Enjolras blinked and stared at Grantaire busying himself with his own beer. The pressure that had compressed his chest deflated like a balloon. So he wasn't into her at all?

As though she was reading his mind, Eponine waved the bill under Grantaire's nose.

"Sure you don't want it?" she asked slyly.

"Keep it," he confirmed, giving her a little wink. "She's not my type. She's totally yours though, you're welcome"

If he could have, Enjolras would have joined Courfeyrac on the dancefloor to express his relief through frenetic, incoherent moves. He would have hugged Combeferre so much he would have broken him into two. He would have kissed Grantaire so hard he would have forgotten his own name and how to breathe. But since none of these options were subtle, Enjolras just smiled against the neck of his bottle, cherishing the sparkles he felt in his fingers and the sudden warmth flowing through his veins. Not his type, he thought. That could mean a million things but.. No, he couldn't entertain too much expectations. And yet, looking up at Grantaire, his heart took literal leap of faith. He had to do something about this. And soon. Before someone his type would come along.

It took Feuilly for Enjolras to take his eyes off of Grantaire. Behind him, the rest of the group was waiting for them, almost jumping up and down in excitement.

"Come on, it's almost big bang time, move your asses!" Feuilly called, clapping in his hands to get their attention.

The bustle that broke out around the table took Enjolras aback. What? What big bang? What was he on about? From behind, Combeferre's hands fell on his shoulders to guide him.

"What's going on?" Enjolras asked over his shoulder, more and more confused as he was led toward a narrow staircase next to the restrooms.

"The fireworks," Combeferre explained. "Mind the step!"

Enjolras followed who he believed to be Jehan in front of him, but in the absence of a proper lighting, it could have been anyone. The staircase was incredibly steep and he had to hold on to the bannister more than once not to fall back on Combeferre and the others behind him. Above someone's silhouette, he made out the dim light of the night sky, a rectangle that seemed miles away, a mere rectangle in the darkness. Finally, he reached a service door and stepped into the fresh air of a summer's night.

He couldn't help but to let out a gasp. Before him, the Parisians rooftops stretched out at far as he could see, the city beautiful and alive in spite of the late hour, glowing under the stars. Sure, he had a nice view from the flat, but that was something else entirely. Someone passed their arm around his neck, bringing him back to the concrete under his feet.

"How's the view?" slipped Courfeyrac with a fond smile.

"Incredible!" Enjolras said in awe.

"I keep forgetting you've... well, forgotten about it. If there's one thing I thought your brain would never let go of, it's the frenchiest view on the frenchiest day of the year."

To be fair, Enjolras wasn't complaining. Experiencing it all over again for the first time was almost magical. He felt like a kid, standing on top of the world.

"Come on, we've booked the VIP lounge!" he enthused, guiding Enjolras closer to the edge.

They all sat on edge of the roof, their feet dangling in the air. For a split second, Enjolras considered the recklessness of it and looked down to discover a large balcony ready to catch any unlucky idiot. Deeming himself lucky, though still an idiot, he put his coke down behind him and took his place between Courfeyrac and Grantaire. It felt surprisingly fine to be so close to him. Maybe it was the dismissal of the barmaid's number or the atmosphere but it felt-how did Marius put it?-peaceful. Finally, Enjolras got what he had meant.

The Eiffel Tower stood out like its key-chains replicas, speckled with golden lights. A beacon in the Parisian skyline. The distant hum of music heralded the imminent start of the show. Absent-mindedly, Enjolras reached back to grab the bottle he had put behind him. But it wasn't the cold surface of the glass that he met. It was a warm palm. Surprised, he furrowed and looked back, at the same Grantaire did. They had ended up palm against palm, both trying to reach their respective drinks, a good foot away from the bottles. Enjolras's mind went blank and before he had the time to think of something clever to say, the other hand had already left his. Thought "left" was too strong of a word. Fingers softly sliding along his, Grantaire's hand had reached for the bottles, giving the coke to Enjolras.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Don't mention it," Grantaire answered with a smile, oblivious to the tension coiling in the night air

Enjolras stared at his lips, his gaze tight. There were something wrong with them. Something off. How could someone sound so upbeat and somehow look so sad at the same time. His smile had lasted but a mere second but it had been enough for Enjolras to notice.

"What's-"

His voice died under a thunderous bang. The fireworks had started. His eyes left Grantaire, moving to the sky lighting up, the fireworks adding a million more stars to those above their heads. Each bang reverberated through him, as though the detonations were coming from within. The classical melodies superimposed with the lights were absolutely magnificent. Each new rocket called for a series of enthralled "oh"s and "ah"s. To his left, Enjolras saw Courfeyrac running his fingers through Combeferre's hair, the couple smiling enough to bruise their cheeks. On his right, Eponine had rested her head on Grantaire's shoulder. Enjolras had never seen her so peaceful, the mischievous sparkle that was usually burning in her eye had been replaced by a soft light. He stopped a second to look at Grantaire himself, whose gaze lost up in the clouds. Enjolras saw the reflection of red and green fireworks on the man's skin, and remember the disco lights from earlier. While the artificial lights had given him 10 years more than his age and sharpened his features, these illuminations smoothed the edges and turned back the clock. The sheer look happiness in display widened Enjolras's smile. He, for one, didn't need fireworks to feel that way.

* * *

They stayed on the roof long after the fireworks, taking turns ordering more drinks when they felt like their glasses had been empty for too long. The amount of empty beer bottles had called for a tournament of caps that Enjolras was, given he was the only one still sober, dominating without breaking a sweat. He was watching Jehan demonstrate his utter lack of aiming skills when the unmistakable sound of gagging stopped the game short.

Joly, a hand on his mouth and the other on his heart, was white as a sheet. Immediately, Bossuet and Chetta got up and ran to him.

"Mon amour, are you alright?" Chetta asked, rubbing his arms while Bossuet was taking care of his back.

"I-I may be a teeny tiny bit sick..," Joly tried to smile, though he wasn't fooling anyone.

There was a move from Joly's two other halves to take his coat and convince him to go home with them but he refused to hear anything of the sort. Enjolras shared a glance worried with Combeferre and Feuilly, but neither seemed to know what to do.

"No, no,no," Joly insisted. "I'm not going anywhere. You're having so much fun, no!"

He shook away the coat Bossuet was desperately trying to slip on his shoulders. The group had suddenly grew very silent and only then did Enjolras notice Joly was sobbing.

"No! No. I just love you so much, guys. I don't want to go." The last syllable drawled on his tongue. Both the slurred speech and the tears evidence that the tequila had gotten the best of him.

"Joly, Joly, it's okay," Courfeyrac said softly in an attempt to soothe him. "You can go home if you need to, buddy. I only came for the fireworks, eh?"

A hum of approbation ran through the group

"But I-I don't w-want Boss and Ch-Chetta to leave," he stammered, having difficulty to articulate between two drunken sobs. "It'll be my f-fault.."

Enjolras couldn't hear the reassuring words Musichetta was whispering in Joly's ear but her genuine look of concern send a pang to his heart. He left his game of caps and stood up, ready to offer his help.

"I'll do it," Grantaire declared all of a sudden.

His earnest tone was so unusual Enjolras had to tun around to check he was really the one it belonged to. Bossuet handed his coat to Grantaire, both of them exchanging a knowing look, conferring without words.

"I was heading home anyway," Grantaire lied. "Didn't catch much sleep last night. What do you say, Joly? How does a warm bed and a doliprane sound?"

He offered Joly his warmest smile, and it seemed convincing enough for the poor drunken med-student to messily wipe his cheeks with his sleeve.

"You sure?" his voice wavered.

"Certain!" Grantaire assured him. "I've seen enough of you lot for at least a week!"

Someone behind Enjolras snorted at the remark. Musichetta, still holding her boyfriend against her, gave Grantaire a grave look.

"You text me as soon as you get home, alright?" she made him promise.

"Yeah, yeah don't worry I'll-"

"I'm coming with you!" Enjolras announced out of the blue, walking a few strides to join the little circle huddled around Joly.

All the faces turned towards him. He didn't know what had gotten into him, but something in his bones was telling him it was the right thing to do. Of course, this decision didn't come without a few objections :

"What? No! No way, the 14th of July is your favorite holiday, dude!" Grantaire protested rather forcefully.

"I'm coming," Enjolras stood his ground. "I'm the only one sober here! If the cops see you without me, you'll both end up at the station for public drunkenness!"

God bless his extensive knowledge of the penal code. Bossuet, as the local law student, nodded in confirmation. Grantaire seemed to hesitate, probably looking for a counter argument, but apparently felt short of any. Instead, he took on the task to get Joly into his coat.

" 'Pointless arguing with you, Apollo, you know that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **14th of July :** You may of course know this as Bastille Day but French people don't call it that. We simply say "the 14th of July" or "the national holiday"  
>  **"Massacre à la tronçonneuse" :** The french title of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"  
>  **"Femme qui rit, à moitié dans ton lit" :** It literally translates to "Make a woman laugh and she's already halfway in your bed"  
> 
> 
> I'd like to thank my physiotherapist of a mom (..and dad.. and brother.. too many physiotherapists in this family) for showering me with medical knowledge 24/7 that I can now put to good use! Who knew it'd be useful one day!
> 
> Now a little course on the French university system : most my exams are set after the Christmas break, during the first weeks of January, which means my break will be more of less dedicated to cramming and papers due writing, unfortunately. I'm, of course, not giving you up! But the writing may be a bit hindered. (Yes I am aware I say that all the time but... uni *sigh*). BUT, just to leave you wanting some more, just know the following chapter will be from R's POV and will pick the story up exactly where we have left it off ;)
> 
> As ever your comments and thoughts will warm me up on these long winter nights so be a pal and let me know what you thought of this chapter. And we can also cry in a nice circle of feels at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) :3


	11. For Just One Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, I'm back! :D  
> Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season if you had anything going on and a Happy New Year!  
> So without further do, let's get right to it, you've waited long enough, I reckon ;)  
> As ever [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com) is on the lookout for my (hopefully not too outrageous) mistakes :3

Joly was heavier than he looked, especially drunk, swaying to the gusts of an imaginary wind, his body. It was as though alcohol had increased his gravitational attraction towards the centre of the Earth, pulling him down. Grantaire held on tight to his friend's arm, correcting Joly's bad posture when his body got too close to the pavement. He cast a glance at Enjolras to see how he was managing. Upon leaving the Musain, they had agreed for Enjolras to support Joly's left side, so as not to strain his weak right arm. Even with that precaution, Grantaire still felt like Enjolras was taking an unnecessary risk, regarding his recovery.

"You're alright?" he asked, shooting a concerned look at Joly's second human crutch.

"Yeah, sure. He's not that _heavy,_ " Enjolras assured, gently tousling Joly's hair with his free hand.

"That's because I'm doing all the lifting here," Grantaire snickered.

He would have carried on with the conversation if Joly had not decided to sing the Beatles' _I Want You She's So Heavy_ at the top of his lungs in a broken rhythm, the lyrics tainted with the thickest French accent imaginable. Better that than drunken whining, Grantaire reckoned. He chuckled, his own ebriety catching up with him, and nudged his best friend. Enjolras shushed Joly by putting his hand over the singer's mouth.

"Shhh, Joly, people are sleeping right now! You're going to wake the wh- _EEW_!"

Enjolras' hand flew away from Joly's mouth. The drunken assailant giggled to himself, biting his lips to contain his hilarity.

"He licked me!" Enjolras cried, looking at his palm in utter disbelief.

It took a second for Grantaire to react. He let out a burst out laughing, quickly followed by Joly, whose knees had started to wobble. Enjolras' face was priceless, the perfect balance between betrayal, disgust and amusement. Grantaire had always been fond of his frown, enamoured with the way his arched brows clashed with the softness of his features. Enjolras was a charming paradox he loved to reflect upon. _You're staring_ , the upper part of his brain, the one that wasn't drowning in alcohol, reprimanded. _You said you wouldn't do that anymore_. Right. Indeed. Shit.

"Don't shout like that, you're going to wake the whole neighbourhood up," Grantaire aped, a smug grin plastered on face. "We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Enjolras' only response was to wipe his hand on Grantaire's shoulder and flash sarcastic smile. His retaliation only earned him a slight shrug.

"La bave du crapaud n'atteint pas la blanche colombe."

"Blanche colombe my ass," Joly snorted, using his elbow to give Grantaire what he had surely intended to be a fatal blow. In his state, however, it turned into a mere poke.

Though they were far from silent, the streets were quieter and significantly less crowded than a few hours ago. The few pedestrians still out at this hour were in the same state Joly was on in, groping in the darkness under the crude light of the street lamps, using the walls of the buildings to stay on their feet. Across from them, Grantaire spotted a guy yawning in technicolour into a trash can, the sound of retching sending chills down his spine. He could hardly judge, though.

He would have taken a short-cut, but the idea of dark and cramped passages had quickly written the idea off. He was more than aware that celebrations and national holidays were a boon for ill-intentioned folks. Between a flat out drunken med student, a sober angel with an incapacitated arm and his boozy self, they were every petty criminal's wet dream. So he had opted for the more well lit up streets and avenues, even though his choice considerably extended the trip. Also, he should really stop calling him an angel.

After twenty minutes of muffled giggles and incomprehensible mumbling, Joly's euphoric bubble had burst into a comatose state, his feet dragging with difficulty on the pavement. Grantaire would have swung the poor bastard over his shoulder, but his legs were already barely dealing with his own weight. By the time he caught sight of the Palace, Grantaire was carrying half of an asleep Joly. On the whole, Enjolras had been right in his stubbornness; without him, he would have probably broken his back trying to get Joly home by himself. If Enjolras thought the same thing, he didn't say it out loud, missing an occasion to rub it in his face. Or, perhaps, the thought never crossed his mind; that said a lot more about Grantaire than it did about Enjolras.

They stopped at the entrance of the apartment building.

"Shit," Grantaire muttered.

"What?"

"My keys," he sighed. "They're in my pocket."

There was no way he could reach his keys and open the heavy-ass door without dropping a dopey Joly on the asphalt, even with Enjolras holding his side of the sleeper. _Shit_ , he should have thought about this way beforehand! This was exactly the kind of bullshit he had been trying to avoid. He cleared his throat, the words he was about to say weighing down his tongue :

"They're in my front pocket. Get them. I'll hold him."

Enjolras seemed to hesitate, his brow furrowed and his lips parting in an attempt to protest (why did he have to know him by heart, dammit? It was infuriating), but Grantaire had already wrapped his arms around Joly's waist. His best friend's head lolled on his shoulder. He was like a puppet without its strings. _I hope you appreciate the things I do for you_ , Grantaire thought, glowering at the peaceful face drooling all over his jacket. A shy hand went to pat his pocket, sliding into the fabric and-

"Not that one!" Grantaire snapped, more aggressively than anticipated.

At once, Enjolras recoiled, as though scorched by his words and Grantaire felt something raging in his stomach. Guilt. He'd had a lot of that lately.

"Sorry, I-he's heavy as fuck, is all," he apologised. "They're in the other one. Please, hurry up, he's making out with my jacket."

The quicker they would get this over with the better. His legs were two sticks of butter melting under the pressure and he didn't know how long his hold would last. The proximity with Enjolras wasn't to better the melting situation, on the contrary. He blamed his lack of strength on alcohol and general exhaustion, even though it was only half of the truth. But lying to yourself doesn't count, does it?

He forced himself to think about something else as Enjolras' hand slipped in and out of his pocket but he felt his breathing stop anyway. His sketches, yes, he could focus on that. The one he had started for Combeferre the other day, a Vitruvian man. No matter how far his mind wandered, he still felt the warm trail of Enjolras' touch against him, an invisible mark, yet very much present on his skin. It left pins and needles in the shape of a hand print, and Grantaire knew alcohol was not entirely to blame for it. _You can not afford to think like that_ ,  reason scolded.

"Which key?" Enjolras asked, breaking the tension.

"The yellow one. With the plastic thingy."

They made their way into the lobby and the lift without any major hiccup. Grantaire did end up dragging Joly into the lift, the sleeper's trousers sweeping the dusty floor in the process, but on the whole, Grantaire reckoned they had done far worse in the past. He and Enjolras lifted Joly up once again, the narrowness of the lift making it more of an endeavour than it should have been. They had just gotten him on his feet when the door opened. The improvised master of keys jingled the key chain as they reached the Palace's door.

"Which one?"

"The square one. The one with a dick drawn on it."

Swiftly, Enjolras unlocked the door and tackled it open with his shoulder.

"Careful," Grantaire groaned to himself.

He knew nothing of medicine or broken arms, but he was damn certain bumping thick wooden panels wasn't encouraged. They went for the bedroom without turning the lights on. Grantaire knew each corridor by heart anyway, from getting up in the middle of the night because of insomnia or getting home late. He had mastered the art of getting into bed in silence while being smashed to high hell. Now _that_ was an achievement he could brag about at parties. He took the lead, warning Enjolras about any significant pitfall he might encounter.

As they reached the bedroom, Grantaire turned on the lights and let out a sour groan at the sudden brightness. They proceeded to ease Joly into the king-size bed. His arms turned into mush, Grantaire still took the time to relieve Joly of his coat while Enjolras took care of his shoes, sliding them gently along his feet. Joly shuffled a few times, mumbling a long string of vowels, but didn't wake up. He curled into the sheets the second Grantaire tucked him into the covers. With all the care he could still muster, Grantaire went to take his glasses off, putting them out of harm's way on the nightstand. There, mission accomplished. Musichetta would probably moan and groan about the sheets and letting him sleep in his clothes. He could already hear her : "Come on, you've seen him naked before, that place is a real sausage fest", but the bulk of it was done. Grantaire watched with fondness as Joly rubbed his forehead against his pillow, thinking about the times the situation had happened in reverse. It was nice, for a change.

Feeling eyes on him, Grantaire turned towards Enjolras. He caught the hint of a smile at the corner of Enjolras' lips, the outline of a dimple on his cheek.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Enjolras said, his small smile growing into a full-blown grin, his hands smoothing the covers. "How much did he have, anyway?"

Grantaire sighed and straightened his back, stretching his arms to wake himself up a bit. His limbs felt numb and useless after all that heavy lifting.

"Well, you tell me. You're the sober one after all."

He nodded towards the door for them to take their leave. They might as well let Joly sleep it off in peace, after all the effort they had put into getting him home.

"I don't know," Grantaire continued after having closed the door behind him. "I think he had planned to stick to cider, but it all went downhill when Bahorel started to order cocktails. I reckon I've brought him three mojitos or something."

He remembered the exact number, actually. He had had to grease the barmaid palm each time with a great deal of smiles and charm to get them half-price. It was fair game, anyway. He was almost certain her interest had also been purely commercial. He wondered what Enjolras had thought of it, though. He knew he shouldn't have cared, or even thought about it, but he couldn't help but fall back on old habits and thought patterns. As much as he wanted Enjolras not to care, a part of him had shamefully hoped for jealousy, for something, anything. But who was he kidding.

"Three!" Enjolras blurted out, immediately toning the volume of his voice down to a whisper. "That's insane! He's like a bonzaï tree! How on Earth didn't he not pass out sooner?!"

Grantaire merely let out a quiet chuckle, leading Enjolras towards the living room. His lack of balance made him bump into a piece of furniture or two, making him giggle. He count already count the bruises to come. They were like temporary paint stains in his skin.

"You know how everybody has hidden depths? Joly uses his to store alcohol. Speaking of which, d'you want something to drink?"

He switched on the lights above the gas stove, their soft glow creating a golden bubble of light around the kitchen area. At least, they didn't assault Grantaire's retinas, which was what he was going for.

"I still can't drink," Enjolras objected.

"Actually, I was thinking about coffee, tea, whatever. I hear that's what civilised people do. I think there's some Orangina in the fridge, somewhere."

He vaguely gestured towards the said fridge, his other hand rubbing his eyes. He could use a good cup of coffee right now. Surely, that'd help kick all of those intrusive thought in the ass. He tried his damndest to ignore the fact that his proposition sounded dangerously like a coffee date. No. That's what friends do, isn't it? It wasn't weird or flirty. No, no it wasn't.

"Oh. Coffee sounds great," Enjolras said, sitting on the kitchen countertop across from him.

"Just so you know, we only have instant coffee left."

"Why would I mind?"

"Now, don't take this the wrong way, but you're kind of a coffee snob."

"Grantaire, it's ten to four in the morning, if you don't put those grounds into hot water, I'll eat them dry with a spoon."

Grantaire snorted at the mental image and took the instant coffee jar out of the breakfast cupboard. He had just turned on the gas under a pan of cold water when a loud thump reverberated through the walls. Evidently, Joly must have met the floor very intimately. Grantaire's first intoxicated instinct was to laugh at the idea, but his reason soon kicked in :

"Shit."

He turned off the gas, setting his coffee-making plans aside.

"I'll go check on him," he said, striding away from the stove towards the corridor.

"I'll make coffee, then," he heard Enjolras say behind him, making him turn around.

He had already jumped off the kitchen countertop and was looking down at the pan.

"D'you know-"

"How to boil water? I have a vague idea, yeah," Enjolras snickered, turning the gas back on.

Their familiarity was what hit Grantaire the hardest, in that instant. Not their physical proximity, not the fact that they were virtually alone at his place in the middle of the night, but the sheer casualness of Enjolras' tone. He had missed that. He had missed that so much, more than he had ever cared to admit to himself. He had missed the friendly shades they used to throw at each other, the way they communicated, verbally or else. It wasn't the same as before, not by any stretch of imagination, nor would it ever be, but still, it did something to him. A gentle blow to the heart, the kind that hurts, yet still delights. Une douleur exquise.

Grantaire flashed a smug grin to cover his sudden fit of melancholia, holding his thumb up for emphasis and skipped away in the dark corridor.

As expected, Joly was lying on the floor, burrito-wrapped in a mess of covers he probably didn't even remember getting in in the first place. Grantaire switched on the bedside table lamp and knelt next to the chrysalis of sheets, his back against the wall. His friend's incoherent mumbling was muffled against the carpet.

"You alright there?" he asked, rolling Joly on his back.

Grantaire tried to tame the unruly tufts of hair sticking in every direction on top of Joly's head while he was collecting himself. There was a long sequence of sounds and dragging vowels from which he picked up the word "home".

"Yeah, you're back home. You were in bed, actually, but it looks like gravity decided otherwise."

Joly snuggled a bit more in the blankets, shuffling as if to find a perfect sleeping position, seemingly indifferent to the hard floor underneath him. Grantaire had no strength left to put him back in bed anyway. Joly opened tired eyes, his lashes fluttering furiously against the light.

"Boss and Chetta?" he asked in a whisper.

"Oh fuck," Grantaire exclaimed. "I forgot to call her to tell her we made it back home!"

He took his phone out of his pocket and struggled to type his password correctly. At the fateful third try, the screen finally changed colour.

"They'll be here soon," he added when he noticed Joly's confused expression.

He dialled Musichetta's number and waited for her to pick up. In the meantime, he took the pillows off the bed and settled them under Joly's head. If he was to stay on the floor, he may as well be comfortable. Or as comfortable as the ground could be

"Is he okay?"

Musichetta's worried tone brought a smile to his lips.

"No, I left him in a dumpster and sold his liver and gall-bladder to buy drugs from a guy called Dream Catcher. Of course he's okay."

Joly, alerted by his girlfriend's voice, held his head up. With his free hand, Grantaire gently pushed his head back onto the pillow. He didn't need him twisting his stomach. Can you even clean vomit off a carpet?

"What about you,” Musichetta asked in her mom voice. “Are you ok?"

Grantaire tilted his head back against the wall and rubbed his eyes, as though to wipe away his exhaustion. He hadn't had a good night of sleep in a long while. Had he been honest with himself, he would have named the reason. But not every bit of truth is fit to be told.

"We made it back home alive, didn't we?" Grantaire sighed, lying by omission.

Joly had managed to stick an arm out of the blankets, his fingers reaching for the phone.

"Wait, I'm putting you on speaker. Rondoudou looks like he's got a lot to say, over here," Grantaire chuckled breathlessly, hitting the speaker button and settling his phone on the floor.

Joly eagerly snuggled as close to the device as he could without actually squishing it.

"Chetta?" he called, a grinning so blissfully that Grantaire wondered if his gums ached from it.

"Coucou, mon coeur!" enthused Musichetta at the other end of the line, her voice bouncing against the walls of the bedroom. "Wait, I'll call Boss! Boss! Boss, Joly's on the phone!"

She had evidently hit the speaker button herself, because the room was suddenly filled up with surrounding noises from the Musain. Apparently, the owners had kept the most shameful french oldies for last. Grantaire caught the murmur of several conversations, distorted by interference. All of a sudden, Bossuet's voice boomed from the phone :

"Coucou, mon Joly!"

Joly giggled, tapping his fingers onto the screen as though to reach the others.

"Coucou yourself," he cooed

"Are you in bed yet?" Musichetta asked. "Is your stomach acting up again?"

"Well, he _was_ in bed," Grantaire chimed in. "But he rolly pollied his way out of it."

They laughed, saturating the line even more. They continued with a few banalities but Joly was definitely not up to the task. His eyes were closing by themselves and his answers were coming late after the questions. Well aware that his best friend was on the verge of falling asleep mid-sentence (plus, he was the one paying for twenty seconds after twenty seconds of flat silence between answers), Grantaire tried to cut the conversation short :

"D'you know when you'll get home?"

"Give us an hour, tops," Bossuet answered.

"Yeah, at least that," Musichetta continued. " 'Cause the evening took a turn. Well, turns. Plural."

Grantaire furrowed his brow. What? They’d only been separated from the group for an hour at the most!

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing spectacularly groundbreaking, don't worry. I'll brief you tomorrow," Bossuet replied.

"Go to bed, you two," Musichetta advised, though it was clearly an order. "See you in the morning, okay?"

"Bye, you two!" Grantaire yawned.

"Love you!" Joly followed.

"Love you too," the other two answered in unison.

* * *

Grantaire closed the bedroom door for the second time that evening, both times leaving a sleeping Joly behind him. He was still smiling about how disgustingly in love they were, the three of them, when he set foot back into the living room. He found Enjolras facing a wall, looking at the photos pinned all over it. They were mostly of Joly, Bossuet and Chetta, but the others features in some of them as well. Maybe Enjolras remembered most of them by now. Or, perhaps, was he still looking for clues, hidden somewhere in the curl of someone's smile or the echo of a laugh lost on photo paper. It was a selfish thought, cruel even, but Grantaire wished for the latter. Some cats never ought to get out the bag. He wished for Enjolras to stay lost at sea and never come to shore. It was better that way.

"How did the boiling water thing go, then?" Grantaire asked.

"Brilliantly," Enjolras smiled, taking his eyes off the pictures.

Walking away from the wall, he passed by the counter and picked two mugs already filled up with black goodness, plumes of steam still hanging above them. He handed one to Grantaire, who accepted it gladly. Coffee was exactly what he needed to put his brain in order. He sat on the kitchen countertop and went to take his first sip. Expecting the familiar bitter taste to act like a slap across his face, he was surprised when the bitterness didn't come. In its place, the sweetness of honey lingered on his tongue, and that, made him more bitter than any coffee could ever hope to be.

"You put honey in my coffee?" he asked in total disbelief.

Enjolras furrowed his brow, confused.

"I did?"

"Yeah, man, you definitely did!"

Enjolras froze, as though he was replaying the whole coffee-making process in his head. Grantaire's hold on his mug tightened. It wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. And he wasn't thinking about the coffee.

"I guess I did, out of habit, maybe?” Enjolras hesitated. “Why? Did I mess it up?"

_Yes. Yes you did._

"I mean it can't be worse than honey-free instant coffee, believe me," he continued, swivelling his own coffee in his mug, seemingly reluctant to drink it.

"No. That's how I take it, actually. I'm just," Grantaire hesitated at his choice of word. "Surprised you remembered that, of all things."

 _I should have lied,_ Grantaire thought _. Why didn't I lie? I should have said I hated it. That would have thrown him off._

"It happens sometimes," Enjolras explained. "Little things come back and I don't even know where they come from."

Grantaire realised they were talking about his memory loss for the first time. Not simply evoking it in surperficially or just referencing it. No, Enjolras had actually sat down in a chair, ready to face the subject head on. Grantaire didn't know how he felt about that, but there were certain things he needed to check, and he surely wouldn't get a better chance.

"Do you remember bigger things?" he asked, trying to sound as detached and casual as possible, but he could feel his voice waver. "Like the accident?"

He took a long gulp of coffee to avoid the impact of the bomb he'd just dropped. He abhorred its taste, because it was exactly how he would have made it himself. Still strong but sweet enough, with something akin to gingerbread, at least to his mind. But he couldn't afford not to drink it now. He had a sore need of lucidity.

"No. Not yet," Enjolras sighed, sipping on his drink as though he was drinking formaldehyde.

"Maybe it's better that way," Grantaire suggested. "I mean, the accident bit. You never know what that could trigger."

Enjolras merely shrugged, blowing away the steam above his mug.

"Maybe, yeah."

To Grantaire, this felt like a victory. It was as though Doomsday had knocked on the door but then decided to call it a day at the last second. It would come back, the crippling fear would soon sneak back on him at night, but for the time being, he could enjoy a short period of relief. His hand loosened its grip on the mug and he took another gulp out of it, enjoying it far more than before. The living room remained silent for a few second, the quiet only broken by police sirens, somewhere down the block.

"How's your coffee, by the way?" Grantaire asked, to change the subject. There was no reason to dwell on it anyway.

"Disgusting," Enjolras answered with a shit-eating "I knew it was going to be dishwater from the start" grin, raising his thumb in the air.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and smiled in his cup. It was only then, now that the butterflies in his stomach had slowed down their relentless fluttering, that he realised how tense his shoulders were. He relaxed a bit, curling his back into a terrible, yet comfortable posture.

"How's the tattoo idea coming up then?" he asked. "Still settled on flowers?"

He knew he was on safe ground with that topic. It wasn't any different than a conversation with Jehan or Eponine. It was one he'd had countless time with different people in the past, and probably would have again in the future. Now what could go wrong?

"Still, yeah," Enjolras replied. "I've done some extensive research lately. You wouldn't believe how many horticultural books a local library can hold."

"You're sure, though? Flowers?" Grantaire insisted.

Enjolras furrowed his brow.

"Why not flowers? Why are you guys always so surprised when I say that?"

"Well that's not very... Enjolras of you, to be honest."

When he had asked him to design his tattoo, Grantaire had imagined pretty much anything but flowers. One of Rousseau's quotes maybe. Che Guevara on his chest. A goddamn Eiffel Tower along his leg even. But flowers... When did Enjolras start giving the slightest fuck about flowers?

" 'Enjolras' is a notion I'm rather struggling with, at the moment," Enjolras answered, with something akin to bitterness in his voice. Grantaire could hardly blame him.

"Yeah, I'll give you that."

"What about you, though?" Enjolras continued, changing subject. "Got any tats?"

Grantaire paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. He could always lie. He could always say no and it'd be the end of it. What would Enjolras do if he lied, anyway? Take his shirt off to check? But somewhere between the alcohol, caffeine, exhaustion and relief, the walls he had built between him and Enjolras had begun to thin.

"Yes, my good sir!" He hesitated before adding : "Want to see?"

The lucid part of his brain screamed in agony, but its distress was quickly muffled by Grantaire's reckless audacity. He jumped off the counter and took his shirt off. Enjolras came closer to take a look and Grantaire cleared is throat, which had suddenly gone very dry. He masked that as the start of an explanation :

"That's the first one I got," he said, pointing at his right side which read : _"If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."_ in a delicate font. "It's a Van Gogh quote."

"And was the voice silenced?" Enjolras asked with a soft smile Grantaire tried not to over-analyse.

 _Well, I don't talk to my dad anymore, so I guess it was, in a  way,_ he thought, though he didn't say it out loud.

"It worked pretty well yeah. Then, there's this one."

He showed the armband tattoo on his upper arm. It was so weird, to think Enjolras was seeing them for the first time. Well, in a way.

"Why vines?" Enjolras asked, looking at the twigs and leaves running in a circle on his skin.

"They're not vines, it's ivy," Grantaire corrected. "It symbolises friendship. I got it after the ABC's one year anniversary. That's why there's thirteen leaves. One for each mem- oh, stop smiling, alright! I know it's cheesy as fuck!" he started giggling in response to Enjolras' grin.

Enjolras held his hands up to claim his innocence. "I didn't say anything, I like it! It's thoughtful!"

Grantaire snorted and gave him a slight punch on the shoulder.

"Ok, what about that one?" Enjolras continued, focused on the tour Grantaire was giving him.

He pointed at his ribs, where " _PB &J_" was written in bold capital letters. Grantaire went to stroke the letters with fondness, an uncontrollable smile settling on his lips.

"It stands for 'Ponine, Bossuet and Joly'. Plus, it's hilarious, so it's a win-win, really. I've got another one, but it's on my knee. Basically, it's a ring made out of elvish words, because, well, Tolkien nerd and all that."

"Oh, alright," Enjolras nodded. "And what does it say?"

" ' _Elvish, motherfucker, do you speak it?',_ it's a reference to- _"_

"Pulp Fiction, I know," Enjolras cut off. "My pop culture knowledge is not _that_ bad."

It was Grantaire's turn to raise his hands, as a sign of apology this time. Enjolras smiled and went to take Grantaire's spot on the counter.

"Would you mind just... doodling on my arm?" Enjolras asked tentatively. "just to see what it would look like, if I decide to go through with it. Anything, really. Just as a experiment."

"What, right now?"

"Yeah! I'm not asking for the Sistine Chapel, do whatever."

Grantaire roamed a hand in his hair with a sighed. Well, he could still hold a pen. As for the drawings skills, it sure wouldn't be the Sistine Chapel. Their eyes met and Grantaire felt his walls thin even more. Why not, after all? He'd never shied away from drunk-doodling before.

"Fine," he gave in, and opened the cutlery tray on his left to retrieve a handful of sharpies. Enjolras blinked in disbelief :

"Why on earth are there sharpies in there?"

"In case inspiration hits when I'm raiding the fridge," Grantaire shrugged. "Now give me your arm. Move a bit more on your left, yes. I need to actually see what I'm doing."

Enjolras shuffles on the countertop to get more exposed to the dim lighting, careful not to knock over several kitchen appliances. Musichetta would surely love to find yoghurt-maker in one piece. Grantaire set the sharpies on the work surface and, with extreme caution, rolled down the compression sleeve along Enjolras arm. His gaze followed the marks on the uncovered skin, each inch revealing another one and continuing another further. Grantaire swallowed hard at the sight, trying to ignore the cold hand squeezing his heart. They were like red trenches on a snowy winter morning. A battlefield covered with a white coat. Unable to stop himself, Grantaire went to follow one of the lines with his thumb. The skin felt alluringly smooth beneath his finger.

He took a step back to choose a pen. Unimaginatively, he picked a black one, mostly because these ones made up half of the pile. Brandishing his weapon with one hand, Grantaire held Enjolras' arm closer with the other. He paused the second he was about to apply the first stroke.

"Do you want me to wake Joly up to ask him about the risks of ink poisoning?" he joked.

"Oh, shut up," Enjolras chuckled breathlessly, giving a weak kick to his knee.

Grantaire laughed and got to work. He began to outline a series of little round shapes, huddled in a vertical cluster, going from the largest to the smallest. Quickly, he realised black wasn't the most ideal colour he could have chosen and turned towards the pile to chose something gaudier. He took a fluorescent green and a soft mauve and began to colour the circles with the latter.

"What did you settle on?" Enjolras asked, his vision probably hindered by Grantaire's mane.

"A snapdragon. Firstly because it sounds like a sassy dragon, and secondly because it stands for strength. It has the word 'dragon' in it after all."

"Oh, so you speak flower fluently?" Enjolras quipped.

Grantaire hummed, tracing the stem of the flower with the green sharpie. He could felt Enjolras' breath blowing on his hair like a gentle breeze.

"Care if I quiz you, then?"

The artist looked up and quirked an eyebrow.

"Don't be ridiculous, you're going to embarrass yourself," he snorted, quickly going back to his snapdragon.

"I've spent the last weeks looking into flowers symbolism, don't test me, Monet. So, Narcissus?"

Grantaire couldn't believe he was starting with something that easy.

"Oh God, are you even serious right now? Egotism. I thought this was going to be challenging!" Grantaire crowed.

"Alright, alright! Violets?"

Grantaire focused on the bud he was drawing, using his concentration to find the answer. He draw another little dot before it came back to him.

"Modesty."

"Roses?"

"What colour?"

"Coral."

"Desire."

Grantaire froze. He felt a hand glide along his jawline, and there was nothing left in him to stop it. It settled under his chin and an index finger tilted his head back. Compelled, his gaze crossed Enjolras', his eyes made darker by the obscurity. Grantaire's walls collapsed.

The pen dropped on the floor. Grantaire's hands flew to Enjolras' cheeks as he pulled him into a wild kiss. He tasted like cheap coffee, but Grantaire revelled in his warmth all the same. Enjolras opened his legs to him and Grantaire pressed his body against his. Warm hands went to wander along his back, and only then did he realise he was still shirtless from earlier. Enjolras' touch was electrifying, making the hammering in his chest worse by the second. This was so good. _Too good_. Dizzy and out of breath, Grantaire gave a small bite to Enjolras' lower lip. Fingernails grazed his skin in retaliation, and he offered his tongue to make amends.

Their muffled breathing was deafening to his ears, enough to cover the screams of reason. He knew it was raging inside, ready to unleash an outpour of guilt and flood his thoughts, but the hands trailing down the small of his back could have made him deaf and blind. _Stop it. Stop right now! You have to stop!_

Against the pleas of his better judgement, Grantaire hooked his hands under Enjolras' and firmly tugged him closer, hips against hips. The song of a whimper crashed against his lips and Grantaire smirked at the sweet sounds he had induced. His hips rolled by themselves, eager to hear more. He want him. He wanted him so badly. It had been too long since the last time he had hold him. Now that he was there, Grantaire was feeling as though he was never going to let him go. The past months of guilt had sustain his hunger for him. The one he was never to touch ever again. Because it was better this way. _It's better this way. He doesn't deserve this. You've done enough damage._

The voice of reason was getting louder now. Still, Grantaire held on to Enjolras. _One last kiss_ , he kept thinking. _On last touch, just give me one last touch before I grow hungry and famished for you again. Before I have to let you go. Please_. He was begging for more. Begging for everything Enjolras could give him in these short seconds.

"I miss you so much," Grantaire whispered.

The words broke the spell, burning like coarse salt in his wounds. Horrified, Grantaire took a step back. No. No he shouldn't have. This was a mistake! This was opposite of what he wanted! Of what he had planned! Of what he wanted for _him_.

He never seemed to catch his breath, his chest going up and down, both from the lack of oxygen and the stupor. On the countertop, Enjolras was staring at him, puzzled, his lips still glistening where his had been just a second ago. Grantaire couldn't look at him. He couldn't answer any questions. So he ran instead. He was good at that, running. As fast as he could, he turned his back on the flustered and confused angel he had called his for an infinitesimal moment and fled.

His flight led him to his room. He slammed the door and locked it behind him before his legs gave under his trembling knees. Sliding against the wooden panel, Grantaire brought his legs against his still vibrating chest. Breathing had become a struggle.

_I fucked up. I fucked it all up._

A small knock on the door startled him.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras' voice called.

But he didn't answer. He pressed his head against his knees instead, unable to cope with the pressure crippling him down. Staying away. How hard could that be? He heard the sound of Enjolras' hand brushing the panel. This was what they were now and how they ought to remain. Apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **"La bave du crapaud n'atteint pas la blanche colombe" :** the french version of "Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" and translates to "the toad's spite doesn't reach the whote dove". Now I'll let you take a wild guess and tell me who's compared to a bird and who's compared to a toad in the brick (a)  
>  **Orangina :** is a french citrus flavoured soda. Yes, I'll use the french trope to the last thread  
>  **Rondoudou :** the french name of the pokemon "Jigglypuff", and it's just a cute name for "sleepy head" really  
>  **Coucou :** a cuter way to say "salut", so closer to "Hiya"  
>  **"Mon Joly" :** 'Joli' means "beautiful" or "cute" in french, to calling Joly "Mon Joly" would make a pun meaning "my precious one" or "my beautiful one"  
>   
> Let's the angst begin, friends! :D Grantaire literally took the French leave there :') Which is funny because French people call it "Filer à l'anglaise" which translated to "Flee the English way" because France and England kind of cordially hate each other passive-aggressively through language. Beautiful :')
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the Fall Out Boy song "For Just One Yesterday" because I think it fits SO WELL and I kept picturing the kiss to that song for some reason!  
>   
> I'm still at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) if you have any complaints to address after that angsty cliffhanger ;) I also accept nice things like review because those are all a writer hopes for :3


	12. "JU61832"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, here we ago again!  
> I knew this chapter was going to be long but I wasn't expecting this! Anyway, enjoy! ;)
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com), who puts up with me and my nonesense :')

Enjolras didn't know how long he stood in front of the door, waiting for Grantaire to come out. His hand had been on the panel for so long it felt as though his skin had become part of it. What had happened? The events were scattered in his brain, fragments he couldn't piece together into a coherent story. And from someone whose life had become a giant jigsaw puzzle of missing pieces, that was saying something. It wasn't even that he couldn't remember. It was that he couldn't _understand_. It didn't make sense, none of it did. For one heart-stirring moment, Grantaire had been so close, each and every one of Enjolras' senses had been overwhelmed. He had touched him, watched him and smelt him. He could still taste Grantaire on his tongue and hear the echo of his voice in his ears. "I miss you". Not "I've missed you". Enjolras didn't know what to make of that nuance. Though his heart had jumped to conclusions, his head had nipped those in the bud. Surely, if Grantaire had wanted to stay, had wanted _him_ , he wouldn't have run the other way.

Tagging along with him, initiating this flower nonsense, all of it had been a long sting of terrible ideas. What had he been thinking? When had this feeling of urgency begun to stir his heart, compelling him to act against his better judgment? The image of the barmaid playing with Grantaire's hair sprung vividly to his mind. Enjolras' lips thinned at the thought. Not so long ago, it had been his hand threading its way among the same curls. Until Grantaire had jerked out of his reach. He wanted more, now. Longing was strange, like something was missing. Grantaire's touch was missing. He'd never known he craved it that much before. The grip of the man's hands was still printed behind his knees, a mold waiting to be filled.

Standing alone in the hallway, there was nothing but the sound of his breathing slowly coming back to normal, harsh in his ears. His heartbeat was still struggling to get back to its regular rhythm. The lack of sounds from the other side of the door was terrifying. Enjolras would have preferred footsteps, angry music, screams, sobs... No, not sobs. He couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd cope with Grantaire crying because of him. His hand shifted on the panel towards the handle, but stopped before he could close his fist around it. No, he had done enough for one night. He was probably the last person Grantaire needed. He did run away from him after all. After a a moment of hesitation, Enjolras' hand drifted away to hang limply by his side.

He traced his steps back to the living room instead. Carefully avoiding looking at a certain spot, he took a sharpie out of the pile left on the countertop. Great, now, paper. He spotted a few magazines scattered on the coffee table and rummaged through the collection in search of something vaguely empty to write on. Why did they have to use every single inch of paper to promote something? Capitalism be damned! He ended up tearing out some minimalist perfume ad, whose black and mostly white aesthetic suited his needs. Nothing came to his mind other than "I'm sorry.". What more could he say? Everything else seemed terrible. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what I was doing" was a lie. "I'm sorry, can we still be friends?" was what a 7th grader would have written. "I'm sorry, but I've never felt like this for anyone and I thought maybe you felt the same. Apparently not. Obviously not. Also, what did you mean by 'I miss you?' ". No. That hit too close to home. "I'm sorry" would have to do.

Tentatively, he slid half of the modified ad under Grantaire's door, waiting to see if he would react. The sheet soon disappeared from his sight in a swift yank and Enjolras couldn't help but to feel relieved. Another minute passed, without any answer from the other side.

"I'm," Enjolras started, shifting nervously. "I'm going to go. Home."

Each word made him feel stupid. He might as well have been talking to the goddamn door itself.

"Bye."

His tone was more expectant than anything else. As though Grantaire was going to open the door right before his departure and ask him to stay. Or even kiss him. He had watched way too many romantic comedies with Courfeyrac and Marius. He waited awkwardly for another long minute before giving up. It was no use.

Outside, the air was colder than he remembered. Keeping Joly on his feet might have tied knot on his back, but at least all the exertion had the benefit of keeping him warm. Enjolras zipped his hoodie all the way up and buried his hands in his pockets. He knew the way back home, it wouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes, ten if the cold made his legs walk faster.

Paris was never silent. Courfeyrac often complained about the noise at night, but Enjolras loved it all the same. New York was hardly the only city that never slept. There was always the roaring of an engine, the chime of bells, the whisper of a conversation to break the slumbering silence. Enjolras chose to focus on those sounds rather than his own thoughts. The screech of tyres. The loud motor of a garbage truck, about a block away. _I miss you_. The sound of his shoes against the concrete. A voice calling someone's name. _I miss you_.

"Enjolras!"

_I miss you. Why did he say that? What was going on in his m-_

"Enjolras!"

A sudden grip on his shoulder crashed his train of thought and made him jump. He recoiled instinctively and escaped the unexpected grasp in a wild jerk. His first thought went to Grantaire, until he caught a glimpse of ginger hair. No, not ginger. "Strawberry blonde". Jehan always insisted on it.

"Oh wow, howdy cowboy, it's just me!" Jehan giggled, holding his hands up in the air, or at least the hand that wasn't holding a big bottle of Coke.

Jehan. Enjolras' brain was fried, unable to make sense of anything. What was Jehan doing here? Damn, was he really that tired? Enjolras tried to say something, anything, but his mouth wouldn’tcooperate. Neither did his brain. Jehan's smile lost of its warmth at the sight of his helplessness.

"Hey," Jehan asked softly. "Are you alright?"

"I kissed Grantaire," Enjolras blurted out.

It had been the only thing in his mind. This strange fact had lingered on his mouth like the ghost of Grantaire's lips, haunting his every thought, desperate to get out. He would have confessed to a stranger, had the occasion arisen. Of all people, Jehan was probably a worthy confidant. Better him than the first stranger to bump into him, that was for sure. Jehan blinked at his answer, probably wondering if Enjolras had broken his strict no alcohol rule.

"Sorry, what?"

"Well, no, he kissed me. We kissed. Him and me. It's," he really didn't know how to put the story into words. Did it really happen? "It's complicated."

To say the least. His shoulders sagged as he let out a frustrated sigh. All the more frustrated as he noticed the smile hanging at the corner of Jehan's lips. What was he smiling about? This was an emergency, not a laughing matter!

"Well damn! So many saliva minglings tonight, it's hard to keep track!"

Alright. Enjolras was definitely lost. What was he on about?

"What?"

"Oh, right! You guys were already gone when it happened! It's Cosette and Marius," Jehan explained. "They finally exchanged DNA samples. Who would have thought we'd live to see this day? Well, night."

Jehan took a long gulp of Coke directly from the bottle as a toast to the newly formed couple. He staggered a bit on his left, spilling a mouthful on the pavement. Oh, sure, he's not sober either, right _,_ Enjolras remembered. When did his life become a long string of drunk people? Jehan wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his silver sequin jacket.

"Anyway! How was that Grantaire kiss, though?" he enthused.

He probably noticed the grim expression on Enjolras' face, because his enthusiasm toned down immediately. Enjolras lowered his gaze to his shoes. Now that he had spilled the beans, he could hardly see himself not telling the whole story. No one likes a tease. It was as though he'd let loose a juicy spoiler and refused elaborate. Of course Jehan would ask, why wouldn't he? But the story was too fresh for Enjolras, he wouldn't know where to begin and what to tell. He wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to tell the whole story. It would feel like a disjointed narrative. 

"It's fine," Jehan assured. "You don't have to tell me, not if you don't want to."

"It's not that, it's just that it's," Enjolras began, not sure of where he was going with his sentence. "It's-"

"Complicated," Jehan supplied with a kind smile, nodding slightly.

Enjolras broke into a smile in spite of himself. Yes. Yes it was. And he didn't even know where to begin explaining how complicated it was. Carefully, as though weary of  his friend's boundaries, Jehan began to stroke his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. The trail of human warmth felt soothing against the cold air of the night. Jehan locked his arm under Enjolras', his small height giving him a convenient excuse to use his shoulder as a headrest. Enjolras didn't mind. If anything, it felt reassuring to know _someone_ had no problem being close to him. Rejection had left him strangely empty.

"Come on," Jehan said, using their interlocked arms to lead Enjolras forward. "I'll show you something cool."

Enjolras didn't ask any question and simply followed. He was too tired to ask questions, anyway. They walked slowly, Enjolras mirroring Jehan's pace. He didn't feel the need nor the desire to talk, so they strolled up the street in silence. The long breaths of fresh air going in and out his lungs were acting like buckets of ice-cold water on his messy and feverish thoughts. Little by little, it cleared the hectic cloud dwelling on his mind, enabling Enjolras to collect himself. He could think more clearly now. Looking back at the events did not cause his Adam's apple to jump in his throat, but his understanding was still muddled

"Is your heart as heavy as your footsteps?" Jehan asked tentatively.

Enjolras furrowed his brow. How did Jehan manage to go from "saliva minglings" to lyrical figures of speech? Being a philosophy student and a full time poet will do that to you, he figured. As for the heaviness, he hadn't noticed it until Jehan pointed it out. Then again, he could hardly feel anything at this ungodly hour. Not to mention the exhaustion. Surely, the lack of sleep was the culprit, weighing him down. No. He knew it wasn't the truth, not all of if. Even though his feet felt like two blocks of cement, it was his heart that had been turned to lead.

"I guess," he answered, letting out a small yawn

Enjolras felt Jehan squeeze his arm a little, for comfort, and he forced a little smile.

"How did you know?" he asked, rubbing his face with his free hand. It felt so numb he might as well be kneading a leather couch.

"Yoga class. Every Wednesday night. You should come!" Jehan explained, his deadpan expression betrayed by a mischievous spark twinkling in his eyes.

As soon as Enjolras had noticed it, however, the spark disappeared. In a literal blink of an eye, his friend's expression had gone grim. The warmth of Jehan's head against his shoulder vanished. It was Enjolras' turn to give him reassuring squeeze.

"Also, it takes one to know one," Jehan added, painfully earnest.

Enjolras' lips thinned. He had never seen one of his friends upset before. Yes, he had seen Courfeyrac and Combeferre in their bad days, back in high school, but he had never witnessed anything akin to sadness among his "new" group of friends. So far, they hadn't been anything less than pleasant and all smiles around him. Grantaire, of course, was a different story. He was a special case, wandering from one well-ordered category to another, going from stranger to familiar face, from aloof jerk to lukewarm friend, from passionate kisser to stranger all over again. The thought was another slap on the back of Enjolras' tired head. No. Enough with him. This wasn't about him, bordel!

He redirected his attention to the matter at hand. Jehan was staring at his shoes, visibly bothered by what was weighing on _his_ heart.

"What happened?" Enjolras asked, so softly that he might have whispered instead.

"Courf and I had a bit of a," Jehan hesitated, fidgeting nervously with his braid. "How to put it? A bit of adisagreement."

Considering the way his voice had pitched at the word "disagreement", Enjolras guessed the confession was more than an understatement. Jehan had started to twirl his hair around his index, gingerly avoiding his gaze.

"What happened?" Enjolras repeated.

There was so much his brain could supply. The joke of a coffee he'd had earlier had somewhat helped with the grogginess, but his vocabulary felt limited to a handful of words.

"It's complicated," Jehan tease half-heartedly. "Listen, I don't want to put you in a weird position. He's your best friend; if you take sides, it's going to create drama. And you know how I feel about non-Shakespearean drama."

"Just because he's my best friend doesn't mean he can't be an idiot," Enjolras argued.

His thoughts went directly back to high school when Courf had stubbornly refused to admit his feeling for Combeferre for three solid years. Enjolras had lived these years caught in a crossfire of pining, leaving an indelible trace in his memory that wavered between fondness and the desire to slap them both.

"Plus, you'll get the point of view of someone sober," he added. "You were both kind of drunk, no? Maybe you two got heated over nothing!"

"It wasn't over nothing!" Jehan retorted vehemently.

If the tone of his voice had taken Enjolras by surprise, it was nothing compared to its owner. Jehan looked properly shocked at his own curtness. He tightened his grip around Enjolras' arm and repositioned his head against him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to shout," he apologised in a whisper. "It's just that Courf is very critical of my relationship, and that's not nothing. Not to me."

Oh. Montparnasse. That was what it was all about. Enjolras only knew him through the picture Courf had painted of the man, and it was a pretty grim one. He remembered details about some shady business Montparnasse had a hand in, mostly drug dealing, if memory served. There was also this bit about him and Eponine being together at some point, but Enjolras had not asked for further details. He barely knew Eponine at the time, and it was hardly his business. All he could associate with Montparnasse was his spiky leather jacket and a face half seen bathed in shadows, the night of the Fête de la Musique. Nothing had given him any reason to trust that guy or to disagree with Courf's judgement.

"Did Courf told you why he doesn't trust the man?" he asked, as tactfully as he could.

He didn't want to upset Jehan further by defending Courfeyrac's opinion right away, though he suspected his best friend was right to worry. From his limited knowledge, Montparnasse seemed to be quite a disreputable character.

"He got pretty vocal about it, yeah," Jehan answered bitterly, looking for his keys.

They had stopped at the front door of Jehan's building, an old thing that towered awkwardly above a field of awfully similar-looking pavilion. Enjolras remembered Eponine calling it "the urban middle finger to middle class homeowners", and from what Enjolras could see, she had hit bull's eye. The building was surely a sour sight for those who had moved there for a view. A reminder that lower classes and students still existed outside of their freshly mowed lawns, right on their doorstep. Enjolras smiled. He had never been to Jehan's, but he already loved these walls for their symbolism.

"I'll explained upstairs," Jehan whispered, lowering his voice on purpose. "The walls are paper-thin so..."

He pressed a finger against his mouth as he nodded toward the door for Enjolras to follow him. The stairs were incredibly steep and endless. _Are we climbing the Eiffel Tower or what_ , Enjolras thought as he pained to put one foot in front of the other. Jehan always seemed to lead him higher, his bottle of Coke swaying left and right in front of Enjolras' eyes like a pendulum, exhorting him to sleep. When they finally reached destination, he understood they had not been climbing to Jehan's flat. They had been climbing to the rooftop.

It was the second time that night, but Enjolras couldn't help the exhausted smiled that crept on his lips when he saw the panorama unfold in front of his eyes. He'd never get enough of it. He could see his own building from there, barely a mile away as the crow flies. Maybe Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already home. They had probably assumed he'd spend the night at the Palace. Deep down, Enjolras wondered if it happened been his goal all along. He would have called them, but his phone was still irremediably locked, stored into his desk drawer back at the flat. He really should have taken on Ferre's offer to buy him a new one.

Jehan sat down and crossed his legs, settling his bottle between them. Enjolras followed his lead, leaning his hand on his friend's shoulder to help his way down. He felt like a very out of shape sloth. One would think his days spent sleeping and recovering in front of the TV would have given him some extra energy, but he had the stamina of a newborn kitten without his eight hours of sleep. He'd have to remedy that.

"So?" he encouraged.

Jehan let out a deep sigh and took a long gulp of Coke the way someone might down a shot of vodka. Apparently, sugar and artificial flavours worked as well as liquor.

"I don't remember how it came up, but basically, he told me that I deserve better, that I was going to get my little heart broken and that, deep down, I knew it from the start."

"Did he really say "little heart?", Enjolras asked. That sounded a bit too condescending for Courfeyrac.

"Not exactly, but there's what the words say and what the words mean. I would know," Jehan assured sourly. "Then, he went on with some more bullshit about how Parnasse is bad news and that he's a bad influence 'cause he sells drugs and all that. Basically, he implied that I'll wind up all _Requiem for a Dream_ and that it'd be Montparnasse's fault."

Enjolras had a hard time diserning what had probably been said from what Jehan might have interpreted. Though knowing Courf's opinionated stance on Montparnasse's character, there was a solid chance Jehan wasn't exaggerating.

"Isn't he, though? Selling drugs, I mean."

"Oh _please_!," Jehan rolled his eyes. "He sells pot to high schoolers who want to be edgy! What a drug lord! If you listen to Courf he's supplying uni's whole philosophy department in LSD!

"But he _does_ illegal stuff, right?"

Enjolras doubted Montparnasse owed his reputation to Courfeyrac alone. Every time he had heard the name come up, it had been linked to a disapproving tone. Apart from Jehan, who always seemed terribly enthralled at his evocation, he hadn’t heard a nice word uttered about the man.

"He sells fake Levis and other big brands like that yeah," Jehan admitted with a mere shrug. "I mean, come on, it's better than being in a drug cartel! Or the mafia! The man is selling fake jeans!"

It was a lot less menacing than cocaine, Enjolras had to admit, even though he highly disapproved all the same. Courfeyrac might have made him sound a lot worse than he actually was, after all...

"Anyway," Jehan continued. "The argument killed the mood, so I left. I've contemplated the idea of buying a packet of powdered sugar to prank him out of spite, because _apparently_ that's the kind of person I'm destined to become, right? Me and my drug lord of a boyfriend. But the convenient store only had this," he lifted the bottle of Coke for emphasis. "The irony was too good."

He was about to take another swig out of it when something sent a jolt through his body, making Enjolras jump as well. Jehan promptly put the bottle aside and took his phone out of his pocket, the device vibrating furiously in his hand.

"Oh!" its owner exclaimed. "Speak of the devil!"

If Enjolras was briefly confused as to the identity of the said devil, Jehan's elated smile quickly gave it away. He would surely have pulled a radically different expression had Courfeyrac's name appeared on the screen. Jehan's face lit up. His thumb was stroking the side of his screen, seeking physical contact through plasma and plastic. This unconscious stroke drove Enjolras' mind toward Grantaire once again. He had never really observed R's hands before, or, rather, how they behaved around him. He should have. Or, maybe, there had been nothing to notice. Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore, does it?

"Look at this nerd!" Jehan giggled, holding his phone out to Enjolras, bringing him back to earth.

Enjolras blinked and took the device, the harsh light stinging his tired eyes.

"Montparnanas?" he read aloud, quirking an eyebrow.

"I know," Jehan beamed, perched on his knees to see the screen above Enjolras' shoulder. "He keeps saying he hates it, but he secretly loves it!"

That nickname business rang a bell in Enjolras' head, but he didn't know why. It'd come back to him, surely. His eyes fell on Montparnasse's contact picture, a pineapple in negative colours, and he smiled. The rest of the screen left him with the same reaction :

_**Montparnanas [4:10 AM] Need me to pick you up?** _

_**Me [4:11 AM] nah imj fiune ure toosweet i barrely drank** _

_**Montparnanas [4:12 AM] Your spelling is saying otherwise. Where are you?** _

_**Me [4:12 AM] tipsy.fine.** _

_**Me [4:14 AM] hjeadin for the conviant stoore. i'll get hoime fine dw** _

_**Montparnanas [4:15 AM] Text me when you're home alright? I give you 30m before i started worrying for good . I'll hoard bunbun pics in the meantime** _

"Bunbun pics?" Enjolras asked, holding back his laughter.

He spotted Jehan's timid smile from the corner of his eyes and the way he tried to replace an imaginary strand of hair behind his ear. He knew that gesture all too well from his own experience.

"Oh-er-yes. He sends me pics of bunnies when I'm upset. Here, look."

Jehan swiped down an endless scroll of pictures, all featuring bunny rabbits, the next one always cuter than the last. The phone vibrated again.

_**Montparnanas [4:46 AM] It's been 30minutes, are you ok?** _

"Oops, I'd better get that!" Jehan giggled, taking his phone back. "Before he gets all worried and begins to shout my name from the rooftops."

"He seems," Enjolras hesitated, trying to find a good way to phrase his thought. "He seemed nicer than I thought."

This was more of an apology than a mere reflection on Montparnasse's character. He'd been wrong and he knew it. By extension, so was Courfeyrac. Enjolras watched Jehan smile fondly at the screen, absorbed in his reply.

"He is. You all went _Pride and Prejudice_ on his ass, but there's a sappy mess beneath all those layers of leather. Plus, you know what dating a petty criminal gets you?"

"Discounts on pot?" Enjolras tried with a smirk, receiving a good-humoured slap on his shoulder.

"No, you precious imbecile!"

Jehan raised his leg, sticking one of his heavy combat boots into the air. If the weights on Enjolras' feet were only metaphorical, those on Jehan's were very real. How did he even manage to lift those off the ground?

"Half-priced fake Doc Martens," he announced proudly, lowering his leg before dusting an imaginary speck of dust off the vamp. "Anyway, enough about my love life!"

Enjolras knew where this was going. I'll show you mine if you show me yours, right? Since Jehan had opened up, it was only fair for Enjolras to do the same. The bottle of Coke rolled towards him until it poked his thigh. It was his time to drink, and therefore his time to talk. Enjolras picked it up.

"What's so complicated?" Jehan encouraged.

The words jammed in his throat and Enjolras resolved to drink to set them free. He almost expected the soda to burn his lips as he tipped the bottle, as whiskey would've, but there was nothing but sickening sweetness. Good, he'd need at least that to soften his acerbity.

"Are you familiar with the concept of 'Scottish showers?'"

Jehan hummed, his eyes fixed on him. His face had shifted from amorous excitement to unparalleled concentration in the span of a second.

"Let's just say it was really hot until it got very cold. Very quickly."

"Meaning?"

"We were kissing, and I _thought_ everything was alright-I mean, it felt alright, it felt _good_ -but at some point Grantaire stopped and literally locked himself up in his room. Like... for real, he _ran_ away. I just don't know what happened."

Enjolras didn't know if that was the kind of "complicated" Jehan had expected, but he didn't cut him off with surprised gasps or questions. He simply gave him an encouraging nod and shook the bottle Enjolras was holding to exhort him to drink some more. He obliged, his gaze lost in the Parisian landscape. He could make out the shape of the Tour Montparnasse in the darkness. The irony.

"I don't even know what to tell you. I just thought it was going so well, you know? I can't say I'm well versed in that type of stuff, sure, but it did feel like maybe he liked me back."

Or maybe it had just been the alcohol talking through Grantaire, blurring the borders of his comfort zone and increasing his need for proximity with another human being. Everything Enjolras had thought to be a sign of mutual attraction had probably been him making a mountain of a molehill.

"You should have seen the look on his face," he continued, trying to control his voice as well as he could. "It was like... he was disgusted or something. Like he couldn't believe he had just kissed _me_. Fuck, I don't remember what I did, but I must have screwed up big time."

His eyes had started to sting. _It's the exhaustion_ , he told himself. Just the exhaustion. He just needed some sleep. A lump had started to gather in his throat. He rummaged furiously through his hair, giving himself an excuse to remove discreetly what had been caught in his eye. If Jehan noticed or didn't fall for it, he didn't say anything. Enjolras couldn't even express how thankful he was for that. He forced a smile on his lips.

"Anyway, don't let me talk, this is getting very whiny," he tried to laugh

"You like him," Jehan flat out declared.

Enjolras looked at his hands, which had suddenly become a fascinating sight.

"Yes," he confessed, taking the greatest care not to let his voice crack under the weight of a single syllable.

"Do you love him?"

He could feel the hesitation in his friend's voice, but it had been a logical follow-up, almost inevitable. This time, the word refused to leave his lips, so he just nodded as an answer. Warm hands went to stroke his shoulders. The kind touch that warmed his skin as much as his soul, alleviating the pressure in his chest. With long, controlled breaths, he managed to choke the emotion back in.

"Can I ask for how long?"

"I-I've forgotten," Enjolras began to explain. "I mean, it's stupid, but I really don't know."

Talking about this aloud for the first time felt like uncorking a bottle that, once opened, wouldn't stop spilling its content. There was always more to say. Jehan just stayed there, nodding and listening to him, never interrupting. He explained it all, or rather, he tried to. Putting words on the mess raging inside him was beyond his skills, no matter how skilled a speaker he was, but if anyone could understand the metaphysical nature of emotions, it was Jehan. Isn't it what poets try to do? Don't they strive to capture the invisible, the fumes of man's soul and arrange them into words on a page? Jehan didn't seem lost in spite his nonsensical account, so Enjolras kept going.

"I don't even remember why I like him," he sighed at some point, his knees pressed against his chest.

The word "love" was too heavy in his mouth to pronounce it.

"It's like being back in algebra!" he continued, his spiel and the lack of sleep striking his nerves like guitar chords. "Grantaire plus x equals this fucked up mess, find x. What the fuck is x?"

"Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you’ll find an edge to cut you," Jehan said, taking advantage of the frustrated pause Enjolras was taking to drink some more sugary crap.

"Mark Lawrence," he added humbly at the sight of Enjolras' impressed expression.

Poets. 

"I can't even begin to touch that memory," Enjolras mused sourly, his lips almost glued to the bottle and his eyes fixed on the horizon

"Well," Jehan began.

The rest of the sentence never made it out of his mouth. Still expecting something to follow, Enjolras turned his gaze towards his friend. The nervous fiddling had resumed with Jehan twisting his fingers and his braid more fiercely than ever. 

"What, what is it?" Enjolras asked, giving him a light nudge with his shoulder.

He tried his best not to frown or sound urgent. It had been too long of a night for them both and pressing Jehan would have done nothing but made it more stressful. Heaven knew he didn't need that right now. Jehan took a deep breath, leaving his braid be by resting his hands on his knees.

"I didn't know how to ask you this, but I've been thinking about this for a while," Jehan started. "I had this optional course last year on psychology and psychoanalysis at uni, right? And we studied, like, methods of hypnosis and st-"

"You're not hypnotising me on a rooftop in the middle of the night."

"No, God, let me finish. We studied this thing, I can't remember what it's called, but it's basically spontaneous writing. It's supposed to help uncover deep stuff, the deep meanders of the soul―my prof used those exact words, that's why I remember it―and buried memories. So, I was wondering if maybe you'd be willing to try it. Maybe?"  


Jehan's voice had crescendoed towards the end of the sentence, climbing sky high by the last word. He was restraining himself, Enjolras could tell, he just didn't know where nervousness ended and excitement began. Of course exploring the "deep meanders of the soul" would be right up Jehan's alley. Now, far from Enjolras to ruin Jehan's golden opportunity to test his rightfully acquired academic knowledge, but being his first subject didn't exactly thrill him. Not that he believed in hypnosis, but it was a pretty damn tall building to fall from. Freud would probably find it very interesting, to fall from a tall, long and rigid erection. That filthy bastard.

"It doesn't involve me being in any kind of trance, right?" he asked, already weary of the answer.

Something lit up in Jehan's eyes and Enjolras knew his friend's battle was already half-won. He was too tired to resist ridiculous proposals.

"You'll just need a pen and something to write on. And me," Jehan enthused, his timid smile growing quickly into an excited grin.

Pen and paper. How much could that hurt? Enjolras contemplated the possibility of unlocking x, of solving the equation once and for all. What if he cut himself by sharpening his memory? The hell with that. He'd had enough of blanks and missing pieces for a lifetime. He wanted to see big picture, however ugly it may be.

"Fine," he conceded half heartedly.

Jehan was beaming. He silently clapped his hands and helped himself up with the help of Enjolras' shoulder. 

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Well, I don't exactly carry paper and pens in my skin tight leather jeans, do I?"

That was rich, coming from someone who had once smuggled an iguana into a cinema, advocating for the lizard's "exceptional aesthetic sensibility". Of course, Enjolras' brain had decided to retrieve this memory rather than a million others, rather than useful, epiphany enducing memories. His memory was a sieve that only let trivial recollections go through. The only reason why scientists have not managed to map the human brain yet is because stupidity is infinite. The vivid image of that iguana stuck in Jehan's hoodie had sure made him laugh at the time, though.

"I'll be right back, here," Jehan gave Enjolras his phone. "Send Ferre a text while I'm gone, just so they know we're alive."  


Enjolras had barely nodded that Jehan had already disappeared down the stairs. He looked for Combeferre's name in the contacts list. "Catacomb". Of course.

**_Me [5:07] It's Enjolras. Spending the night at Jehan's. He's fine, btw. What the fuck happened? Anyway, we'll talk about this tomorrow. Hope you guys are ok. Tell Courf he's an idiot (but, you know, like a caring idiot. Not in a mean way. Well, maybe don't tell him that. If it's any consolation, Jehan isn't doing cocaine). Love you_ **

He pressed "send" and was automatically redirected to the contacts list. Curious, he swiped through the names. "Angeloras" was unmistakable. "Bald Eagle" was Bossuet for sure. His thumb stopped at "Verre-de-Taire". Grantaire. Enjolras swallowed hard, his finger ghosting over the "send a text" option. He'd never know it was him. He'd just be checking on him. It wasn't weird. Ok, it _was_ weird. Enjolras cast a look over his shoulder. No trace of Jehan. "Send a text".

_**Me [5:11] Just hope you made it home alright. Text me if you're awake. Or get some rest ♥** _

No, blatantly not Jehan. He made a few arrangements :

**_Me [5:12] just hope you made it home alright. text me if youre awake or get some rest_ **

He hesitated. Should he send it or not? He was taking this way too seriously. Maybe with a few changes it'd sound better. He could always peek at Jehan's old text for reference just to-

"Oh wow, you're going to need a lot more emojis than that if you want to encapsulate my flamboyant prose, my dear."

The surprise sent a wild jolt along his spine and tensed his fingers around the phone. Who would have though combat boots could be that silent.

"Shit, Jehan, I'm sorry. I should have asked first," he blurted out, casting his friend an apologetic look.

"No, it's okay, I get it," Jehan dismissed, waving his hand to sweep Enjolras' apology away.

He squatted and let himself fall backwards, his hands being too full to ease his way down. He balanced his load─a large hardcover, black writing paper and a pen─on his knees before turning towards Enjolras, his arm stretched out.

"Let me give you a hand with that. Well, thumbs, two of them. Opposable, a wonder, really."

Enjolras needn't be told twice. The embarrassment was burning his cheeks. What the hell was he doing? He had let Grantaire go to his brain. These stupid impulses were getting out of hand. Better get that phone away from his reach before he tried something even more stupid. If such thing existed. He watched as Jehan worked his magic, waxing poetry with emojis and typos he could never have come up with. The end result managed to convey Enjolras' concern behind a thick veil of Prouvarisms.

"A thing of beauty," Jehan declared after having pressed "send". "Alright, take this!"

The rudimentary equipment passed from one lap to the other. Enjolras settled the hardcover─some illustrated H. P. Lovecraft he'd never heard of─ against his thigh, making sure it was stable enough for him to write on.

"Black writing paper?" he quipped, turning the sheet of paper on itself.

"How am I supposed to make a strong aesthetic statement through epistolary correspondence without a bold choice of stationery?"

Jehan's aesthetic choices even extended to the silver ink pen Enjolras was holding. He gave a quick scribble on the paper. So they were doing this, then. For real.

"Okay, so how do we do this?" he sighed, resigned as could be.

"First, you're going to open your mind. You're stiff as a poker," Jehan chuckled. "Take a leap of faith."

"As long as it's not a literal leap," Enjolras groaned.

Jehan shushed him gently.

"You're _not_ going to jump off the building. Okay, so close your eyes. Come on. Good. Now listen to me, alright? Relax as much as you can."

There was a fine line between relaxing and falling asleep. His eyes had barely been closed that Enjolras began to vacillate dangerously over the edge of the latter. Everything felt heavy, his body as well as his soul. Colours danced behind his eyelids in a lethargic waltz, hypnotising him more than Jehan could ever hope to. Shit, Jehan! He was supposed to listen! Jumping in the bandwagon, Enjolras focused on the suave voice.

"-yourself this morning. Visualise yourself. It doesn't have to be specific. Breathe in," Jehan showed the example by taking a deep breath. "And breathe out. You're a week ago now, it's morning and you just got out of bed, you-"

Enjolras did his best to stick to Jehan's guidance, but his attention kept shifting from one thought to the other. Combeferre had tried to get him into meditation once, but he had been a real let down in that area. How was he supposed to stay still, doing nothing but vacuuming his thoughts? That's what sleeping was for! Wait. Did he just remember that? He gave himself a mental slap to redirect his attention back on Jehan and his soothing tone.

"Let them come. Anything is welcome. Colours, smells, touches. Let them come to you, don't force yourself towards them. Ask yourself what you're seeing."

Another kind of heaviness was starting to weigh on him, far different from that of exhaustion. This one was paralysing, turning his body into stone. His limbs were no longer responsive. His five senses had shut down. Enjolras was nothing but thoughts. A small part of his consciousness flashed a red neon sign, alarmed by the sensation, but the rest of it swallowed the warning down. He was breathing better, for some reason. Jehan's voice kept going, though he could not longer situate it.

"I will tell you to open your eyes soon, but before that, take the time to breathe. Fill your lungs. Empty your lungs. Feel the cold air going in, and the slightly warmer air going out. You can open your eyes now."

A few seconds passed before Enjolras found the will to do so. He blinked furiously, his eyes having lost their accommodation to the darkness. Even Jehan's outline was difficult to make out, though he was only about three feet away from him. His body felt strangely limp.

"I guess the meanders of my mind were too sinuous for-what?"

Jehan was smiling at him. No, more than that. He was jubilating. Enjolras frowned. What was he smiling about, he hadn't written anything! Jehan went to tip his chin down and Enjolras's heart skipped a beat. Silver ink was glistening on the dark paper.

_"JU61832 JU61832 rain JU61832 it never stops raining rain JU61832"_

The same words and digits kept repeating themselves all over the page, at different angles, different sizes. Enjolras stared at them, dumbfounded. Jehan had proved him wrong more than once tonight, there was definitely a pattern here.

"I-I didn't feel anything, how-," he stammered.

Jehan merely giggled at his reaction. Enjolras traced the outline of his handwriting, barely believing that it was truly his own.

"JU61832," he mouthed pensively.

"Any idea what it stands for?" Jehan asked, hardly containing his elation.

JU61832. No matter how hard he tried, Enjolras couldn't make sense of it. It did feel familiar, he knew that much, but it didn't correspond to anything his memory had recovered as of yet.

"None," he replied, turning the sheet of paper in every direction as though the answer would magically appear by itself. "You?"

Jehan delicately took the sheet, inspecting it closely.

"I don't know about the numbers," he ended up saying after a meticulous scan. "But I may have an explanation for the rain part."

Enjolras nodded eagerly. The rain. What about the rain? Why the rain, of all things?

"It was raining, the day you―you know―got hit, a proper deluge." Jehan's voice wavered at the evocation. "I remember because I took your soaked up clothes back home to dry them. It was a real mess, your shirt was ruined because of the―well. You know."

He knew. He had seen that shirt afterwards. The sleeves were shredded from the impact with the asphalt, and no matter how much Jehan had tried, he couldn't not wash away the discoloration his blood had left on the fabric. Why they had bothered keeping it in the first place was still a mystery, though a less pressing one than many others. The rain... That made sense. Not to mention his aversion for it, ever since he had woken up at the hospital. He retained no conscious memory of the accident, but the shock must have embedded the sensation somewhere in his brain. Something like: "caution, you're about to get hit by a car" at the slightest drizzle. No wonder he felt angry at the sight of heavy clouds, now.

"Are you ok?" Jehan asked tentatively.

Enjolras blinked. For how long had he been lost in thought? He rubbed his face to wake himself up.

"I-yes, sure. Feels weird, is all."

He received a compassionate squeeze on his hand. It had been a long night.

"I understand. Hey, didn't I say I'd show you something cool?" Jehan cheered softly, probably trying to lift his spirits up.

"I'll admit it was kind of cool. I can't believe it worked, to be honest," Enjolras confessed.

"No, not that! _That_ is the cool thing!"

Enjolras followed Jehan's gaze towards the skyline. He hadn't noticed the soft mauves and pinks colouring the sky, the dark blues fading into lighter, brighter shades. Sunrise. A new day. The city was changing before his very eyes, the bluish grey rooftops standing out against the cream walls, no longer merged with the nocturnal darkness. Enjolras felt really small and insignificant when compared to the ocean of beautiful buildings, but in a comforting way. If he was negligible, so were his problems, and that thought was reassuring enough for now. Though he kept "JU61832" in the back of his mind, he was too tired to make anything of it now. He'd have all of this day to sleep on it.

"Do you want me to talk to Courf?" Enjolras offered after a while of silence and contemplation.

Jehan gave him a bittersweet smile. The timid light of day was unravelling the marks of fatigue indented in his features.

"It'd be cool of you, yeah," he agreed. "Listen, I know he means well. He's worried about me and he's just being protective, I love him for that, really. But he won't believe me if I start making a case for Parnasse. He's just―He's fixed on what he's heard about him. Maybe he'll listen to you more than he'd listen to smitten, subjective me."

Enjolras nodded, sealing the deal. 

"What about you?" Jehan asked in return. "Do you want me to talk to Grantaire on your behalf? I mean, something's clearly going on there."

The idea was tempting, but Enjolras shook his head. No. Their relationship was already awkward enough. Patching things up between two caring idiots was simple. Patching things up between someone who cared too much and someone who didn't care enough was something else entirely.

"Don't bother. Really, it was probably just the alcohol talking―well, acting. He was so drunk he would have kissed anyone."

"You're sure?"

"Certain," Enjolras insisted. "Actually, can we keep this between us? All of it?"

Reclined on his elbows, Jehan stared at him, confused.

"I just don't want to create drama over nothing," Enjolras explained. "I know how you feel about non-Shakespearean drama."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **bordel :** "dammit"  
>  **"Angelotras" :** pun that combines "angelot" (cherub, silent "t") and Enjolras because Enjolras sounds an awful lot like "ange"  
>  **CataComb :** as in catacombes in French, which is basically the same thing as "catacomb" in English  
>  **Verre-de-Taire :** pun that can either be read "ver de terre" so "worm" and "Verre de Taire" aka "(Gran)taire's glass. You know how I feel about puns  
>  **Montparnanas :** Montparnasse merged beautifully "ananas" which is the french of pineapple  
>  **Tour Montparnasse :** It's a really thing guys, it's huge, black and inescapable, Montparnasse would absolutely love it :')  
>   
>  It's a never ending chain of mysteries isn't it? :') When one is resolved, 2 take its place etc etc, a real hydra! And oh boy do I have a surprise waiting for you for next time! Stay tuned for that!  
> If you want to cry about pining idiots, I'm at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com), ready to share tissues! Also, nice words and comments are always the highlight of my day so if you have something to say, please do so! ♥


	13. Cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this chapter was a long time coming! It's being hanging in my head for months, and I was both dreading and impatiently waiting to write it. And here it is!
> 
> So, **WARNING :** I'm levelling up the rating from M to E for this chapter, for NSFW content. If you are not comfortable with that kind of thing (which I totally understand), feel free to read up until it gets too much for you and skim the parts you're uncomfortable with, you'll get a general feel anyway ;) 
> 
> That been said, I wish you all a good reading experience :3
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

Patching things up between Courfeyrac and Jehan had been even easier than Enjolras had expected. He had hardly stepped through the threshold before Courfeyrac had pounced on him, asking how Jehan was. Apparently, he had tried to call Jehan several times after he had left the Musain to apologize, to no avail. After a lengthy―and yawn-filled―discussion, Courfeyrac had jumped on his phone to call Jehan again, successfully this time. It had ended with a profusion of apologies on both sides and new outing plans to ease the tensions. Deep down, Enjolras knew his best friend still felt unsure about Montparnasse, but his animosity had been toned down to a minimum.

The following days were filled with solitary métro rides and quiet afternoons at the library. Being alone with his thoughts didn't work well for him these days, so Enjolras took to writing ABC articles again. He knew enough of the political and economical situation now to resume his active part on the ABC blog, which was a comfort because it enabled him to direct his thoughts on something other than Grantaire. If something didn't scream R, it was politics and activism. Enjolras would spend his quiet work hours on the library's computer, typing away pages and pages before sending them to Combeferre's laptop. Another thing locked up in his desk, his laptop still needed a password, and none had come back to him yet.

His mind, however, couldn't keep Grantaire at bay for long. At night, he replayed that kiss in his head, the moment that had preceded, the instant Grantaire had held him, while carefully avoiding what had followed. Even the green t-shirt he kept in the bed with him didn't help to put him to sleep. Enjolras had borrowed several books on psychoanalysis from the library, trying to crack the code Jehan had uncovered. So far, he was still in the dark, no matter how many volumes he'd gone through. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre had noticed how down he looked. He had downplayed their concerns by attributing his sorry state to his lack of memories. That being a half-lie, they hadn't need much convincing. Since then, Courfeyrac hugged him a lot more and suggested ice-cream breaks for all types of occasions. As for Combeferre, gentle touches, shoulder rubs and "do you need anything"s had become a second nature for him. Enjolras felt guilty for worrying them, but at the same time, he appreciated the attention.

To make it up to them, a few days after the 14th of July, he had initiated a game of Uno, since they were all at the flat earlier than expected. Combeferre's shift had ended at 4PM instead of 6PM and the library closed at noon on Fridays. Even though his attention wasn't the sharpest due to the recent sleepless nights, Enjolras tried to focus on the game. Ironically, he was winning. 

"Take two, mon coeur," Combeferre crooned, flashing his blue "+2" card in Courfeyrac's direction.

"Don't you 'mon coeur' me, you absolute bastard, my deck is already touching the ceiling!"

Begrudgingly, Courfeyrac took two cards from the pile, glaring at his boyfriend. Soon Enjolras was left with only one card in hand.

"Uno!"

"Great, my turn," Ferre enthused with a predatory smile.

He revealed another "+2" and Courfeyrac's outraged fist slammed the table.

"You, my good Sir, are cheating!"

"I most certainly am not, dear. Now put you goddamn green 5 on the pile and pick two cards," Ferre said tonelessly

Enjolras watched the scene with ill-concealed amusement.

"You're counting cards!" Courfeyrac accused.

"The only thing I'm counting right now are the cards you're not taking from that pile," Combeferre retorted calmly, gesturing at the picking pile.

Reluctantly, Courfeyrac complied. Triumphant, Enjolras laid down his last card on the pile, under the jeers of his adversaries. He got on his feet almost immediately, barely taking the time to enjoy his victory. His head was buzzing and lying down seemed like the only sure way to tone it down. 

"You okay?" Combeferre asked, suddenly very earnest.

"Yeah, don't worry. Something's stabbing my brain. I just need some rest, you guys continue without me."

The two of them looked concerned, but didn't try to hold him back. Enjolras flashed a reassuring smile and felt Courfeyrac's hand on his back. At least he had them. It was nice, having people to count on.

"Come back soon, eh?" Courfeyrac soothed. "I need someone to help me kick his ass."

He nodded toward Combeferre, who brought a hand to his chest and made an overly offended expression. Enjolras laughed, giving one last tug to Courfeyrac's hand.

He didn't even take the time to close the door behind him when he got into his room. The sight of his bed was akin to that of the Promise Land and he flung himself on the mattress, ready to enjoy peace and quiet. Except his brain was rarely silent lately. Burying his face into his pillow, Enjolras held the balled up green t-shirt against his mouth. It was always hanging in his bed, after all these weeks. It still had its distinctive, lulling smell, even though Enjolras always pressed it against him. He should really think about giving it a wash, he thought. This couldn't be sanitary. He held it against his nose, feeling like a child in need of reassurance. Breathing in. Breathing out. Combeferre and Courfeyrac's playful argument was audible even through the corridor :

"I swear to God if you're holding one of these 'plus' cards again―" Courfeyrac's voice said.

"Just play. Take a walk on the wild side!" 

There was a moment of silence before Courfeyrac's voice roared throughout the flat : 

"PLUS FOUR? _NOW THAT'S JUST CRUEL!_ "

Enjolras felt his whole body tense. _Cruel. Cruel. Cruel. Now that's just cruel._ He knew this. He knew these words from someone else. He had heard this before. _Cruel. Cruel._ Who was it? _Cruel. Now that's just cruel._ Who―

The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.

* * *

 It was a disaster. Enjolras should have known. He should have better prepared himself. How did he fall so far behind? He had let too many things fly over his head, thinking that he'd work on them in due time. Now here he was, knee-deep in stress and revision cards. It wasn't even knee-deep at that point. Drowning would have been a better analogy. Between papers, exams, oral presentations, ABC articles to write and just plain everyday life, Enjolras could no longer tell if the tremors agitating his hands were due to an overconsumption of caffeine or stress. Probably a fair balance of both. He was well acquainted with the crippling terror of exam season, it wasn't his first rodeo, but it had never got to him to that extent. Combeferre kept saying that he was worrying over nothing, that his grades were already excellent, too excellent to fail, in fact, but Enjolras' fear of failing knew no bounds. University had gotten terribly demanding, filling his brain with warnings and apocalyptic scenarios, was he to flunk his semester. 

He always seemed to run out of time. The days had scarcely begun that they were already over, and no matter how deep he buried himself in books or lesson notes, he never seemed to learn anything effectively. His desk was clotted with revision sheets, his floor was an ocean of post-it notes and his brain remained desperately blank. Enjolras had watched the days go by with growing anxiety, unable to turn back the clock to give himself more time. He couldn't fail. He couldn't let himself down like that. The number of days leading up to the January exam session had dropped quickly, each like grain of sand in an hourglass. And now here he was.

Sat next to him on the bed, Grantaire was struggling to find a comfortable spot among the scattered piles of paper. Oh, that too had been a _brilliant_ idea, the cherry-bomb on top of the cake, ready to explode to his face. What the hell had he been thinking? "Oh, I'm already barely able to focus on anything, my brain is going to explode and I'm on the verge of a breakdown, but why not ask the guy who makes me feel like that all year long to help?" What a _fucking_ idiot. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Enjolras had a debate to prepare for his Political Sociology exam, and he could hardly come up with arguments on his own. Asking Combeferre or Courfeyrac to assist him would have meant pulling them away from their own revisions. It would have been selfish of him to do that to any of his friends still at university. Musichetta was down with the flu. Bahorel was already helping Feuilly. Only Grantaire remained. 

"Perfect," Courfeyrac had assured him, putting on his coat before leaving for the university library. "You guy never see eye to eye during meetings and you always end up arguing anyway! He'll serve you counter arguments on a silver plate!"

He wasn't wrong, though their arguments had become a lot more civile through the years. Grantaire was surprisingly eloquent, especially since he had toned down his belligerent snark for something more akin to constructive thinking. Or maybe had he always been good with words, and Enjolras had only failed to notice his talent sooner. There were many things he had taken ages to notice about Grantaire. How young and carefree he looked when he laughed, for instance. The way he would tousle his hair whenever someone would compliment his creations, probably hoping to hide the slight blush creeping on his cheeks behind a veil of black curls. The minuscule wrinkle drawn at the corner of his eyes, stretching beautifully when he smiled. Yes, Enjolras had noticed a lot of things. A bit too much for comfort, actually.

Now that time was of the essence, he had no time to revel in these details, however charming they might be. The bipartite system, yes, absolutely, _that_ was the kind of thing he should focus on. His own handwriting read like undecipherable scribbles. Grantaire had been destroying his arguments for half an hour now, but nothing convincing had made it out of his mouth. He _had_  points to argue, but formulating them was beyond him. He was running out of time.

He had so many more things to do. _I've lost thirty minutes already._

 _I should have gone with Courf and Ferre to the library_ , he reckoned. _Maybe I could have been more productive_.

_I'm going to fail._

"Okay, but what about voters with right-wing profiles who don't follow the binary electoral system and give their ballot to the left-wing candidate?" Grantaire supplied, skimming one of Enjolras' revision sheet. He should have being pleased with how seriously Grantaire took the matter, but having his thesis swept away like a house of cards was deeply discouraging. "It feels like you're avoiding talking about them on purpose. Give examples!"

Enjolras' nerves were raw, almost exposed. He couldn't do this anymore. The clock was ticking by and he had lost so much time already. He would have hit himself on the head to unclog his brain, had it been that easy. The tremors in his hands were harder and harder to keep in check.

"I can't think of anything," he sighed, passing a nervous hand through his hair, so roughly he might have scratch his scalp.

"Yes, you can," Grantaire insisted, his eyes still riveted on the paper. "Come on, build your fucking argument! All you've got so far are empty words!"

"I _can't_!"

The lump that had gradually gathered in his throat choked him and his voice cracked. There was something burning his eyes.

" _Yes_ , you―Are you okay?"

Enjolras nodded furiously, biting his lower lip to contain the tear that was already rolling down his cheek. He was going to fail. In spite of all his hard work, he knew it. Grantaire's worried expression acted as the final nail in the coffin. An unexpected sob shook him, violently heaving his chest. His hands crumpled the paper he was holding, his fist closing on the hieroglyphs he had once called his handwriting. What use now? He wasn't going to pass this semester anyway.

"No," Grantaire blurted out, his face falling at the sight. "No, no no! I didn't mean to be dick, I―"

Great. Absolutely brilliant. There was no stopping the tears now. Enjolras felt like a tap, pouring out the stress accumulated for weeks. He cursed each irrepressible sob agitating his chest. He didn't need this right now. Not in front of _him_. He was tired but more than that, he was angry. Angry at the pressure he put on himself. Angry at the professors, always stressing the importance of academic success. Angry at his lethargic, useless brain. More than anything, he was angry at himself for breaking down so easily. But he couldn't stop. Each sob was an explosion within him, exposing layer after layer of poor self-care until he felt naked. His headache was ringing in his ears.

Grantaire moved closer, sliding on the blanket until their hips touched. His hands waved awkwardly around Enjolras, not sure how to proceed. Finally, warm arms wrapped themselves around his convulsing shoulders, gently guiding him forward. His warmth felt strange around Enjolras, clashing with the cold shivers running through him. He settled his head on Grantaire's shoulder, trying to get hold of his ragged breathing. If he could control that, he'd be okay. He had to control something. Anything.

"I thought getting you worked up would motivate you. I'm so sorry," Grantaire apologised, his voice betraying his agitation.

Enjolras took a long inspiration, filling his lungs with Grantaire's scent. Breathe in. Paint. Breathe out. Breathe in. Honey. Breathe out. Breathe in. Apples. Breathe out. He focused on the familiar and comforting smells to clear his mind. The jerks heaving his chest weakened slowly. He realised Grantaire was rocking him lightly. Taken aback at first, he eased into it. The gentle rhythm was soothing, its regularity giving Enjolras something to hold on to. He sniffed and rubbed his cheek against the wool of Grantaire's jumper, getting rid of the moisture sticking to his skin. The sobs had ceased under controlled breaths that were lifting his chest up and down in an artificial fashion. The expired air felt hot on his lips. Following its trail, Enjolras realised how close to Grantaire's neck he was. He could almost taste it. He noticed a wayward curl hanging just under Grantaire's ear, moving slightly with the force of his breath.

Grantaire tilted his head towards him, his softened features marred by a worried frown.

"Better?" he asked with a tentative smile.

His mouth might have moved but Enjolras didn't catch any of it. His brain was torn between the captivating sight and the bipartite political system he had to argue against. The bipartite system encourages a stereotyped view of politics and discourages young voters whose ideals don't conform to either side, a little voice supplied in his ear. He could feel Grantaire's breath on his lips. But the establishment of fixed values enables the existence of a stable political scene without―Was that Grantaire's hand in his hair? Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

His last breath went to join Grantaire's. Tilting his head up, Enjolras pressed a kiss against the parted lips, sharing his warmth. The remaining salt of his tears merged with the sweetness of Grantaire's touch. He was so gentle. Enjolras had never pictured Grantaire treating him this tenderly, returning his kiss the same comforting way he'd soothed his panic. The softness of it all clashed with the violent leaps of Enjolras' heart, taking swan dive after swan dive at each gentle stroke of flesh. His heart demanded more, thumping harder and harder as an encouragement. Obeying the impulse, Enjolras deepened his embrace, lunging forward to feel Grantaire better. 

The sudden eagerness drove Grantaire away. His hands fell on Enjolras' shoulders, gently pushing them apart. The fall back to Earth was cold and brutal, leaving Enjolras stunned, his body frozen in a breathless stupor. His neck was still inclined for his lips to meet Grantaire's, left with little else but void to gorge on. Something stirred unpleasantly in his stomach.

"I―," Enjolras began, trying to take hold of himself.

His mind juggled between the different options at his disposal : an apology, an explanation or a confession. Staring vacantly into space, he couldn't decide on any of them. That kiss had consumed all of his thoughts, electrifying his nervous system and leaving him fried.

"No, it's fine," Grantaire affirmed adamantly, his hands quickly busying themselves with several revision sheets lying around.

The distant and stern tone took Enjolras off guard, snapping him out of his trance. He straightened his back, feeling his cheeks burning. He had kissed Grantaire. He'd actually done it. 

"I get it," Grantaire continued, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the notes. "You're under stress and confused. Forget about it. It's fine. Focus."

Something fell in his stomach, as though Enjolras had swallowed a handful of pebbles. Of all the moments he could have chosen, it had to be that one. This was far from how he had pictured the scene. Less crying had been involved in his imagination. More enthusiasm from Grantaire, too. Why wouldn't he look at him? The knocks against his rib cage had gone from pleasant swings to painful blows.

"So," the other continued, detached and sounding weirdly professional. "What about les Verts? And le Centre? Saying their opinions don't matter in the midst of a bipartite system is undermining the political ideals of thousands of people, no?"

 _Shit_ , the debate. Enjolras shuffled his flashcards nervously, his mind reeling in every direction. He needed to focus. This was by far the most pressing issue. Didn't he just break down crying because of it? His eyes skimmed through the notes, catching words such as "bicameral", "partizanship" and "coalition". Grantaire _did_ kiss him back,  though, didn't he? Then why dismiss it like it was nothing? _Focus._

"The bipolarized political system hinders―," Enjolras started, years of Political Science guiding his words instinctively. Grantaire's aloofness was unbearable. _Forget about it_. How the hell was he supposed to do that?"Hinders―"

He dared steal a glance at Grantaire. They couldn't possibly _not_ talk about this. His eyes fell on the desirable lips, still, yet calling for him. 

"The last legislative election shows that―that―"

Leaning forward, Enjolras answered the call, muffling a startled gasp against his mouth His own recklessness felt exhilarating, his tongue grazing Grantaire's in a game of cat and mouse neither of them seemed ready to lose. His conscience slipped into an angry scold, deploring his lack of concentration, but Enjolras' focus had shifted to a 180° angle. Grantaire was too distracting for politics. Maybe if he could just quench the thirst that parched his lips, he could finally study. Maybe if Grantaire held him a little bit tighter, the pressure blocking his chest would finally deflate.

"Enjolras―" Grantaire tried, the sound of his name only driving the man further.

Hands settled on his shoulders. Instead of pulling him closer, however, Grantaire withdrew a second time, pulling Enjolras away with a forceful jerk.

"Enjolras, now that's just  _cruel_!" he raged.

Enjolras was speechless. Cruel? No! That's not what he had hope for! How was it cruel? The fingers digging into his skin pulled away hastily.

"It wasn't meant to be, I―"

"You can't do that to someone!" Grantaire cut off, leaning his body as far from Enjolras as he could, sending revision sheets on the floor in the process. "I don't know what kind of fucked up procrastination method this is but I'm not a fucking outlet you can use for release as you see fit!"

He stood up, apparently incapable to stay still and pour out his anger at the same time. Enjolras was speechless. Never in his life had he seen him that angry. But it wasn't just anger. He looked like a wounded animal, barking out his rage to conceal his pain. Enjolras had never meant any harm, on the contrary. How did they get from kissing to yelling? His headache came back, increased tenfold.

"Being upset is not an excuse," Grantaire continued, pacing around the room. "Giving hope to someone, it's just―it's a dick move!"

Wait, what? Enjolras' jaw fell. Was he accusing him of―Did he hear that right? His heart was thumping in his chest. Giving hope. Grantaire had hopes. That meant―As Grantaire paced within his reach, Enjolras closed his fist around the man's wrist, stopping his aimless race. He didn't resist. Enjolras wasn't sure he had even felt it. Grantaire's knees were visibly shaking.

"Grantaire," he called softly.

"Leading people on is by far the shittiest thing―"

"Grantaire!" 

"What?" he shouted, and Enjolras thanked the university library for being open on Sundays. He would have hated for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to witness this mess. He couldn't account for their neighbours, though.

"I'm not upset. I mean,  _yes_ , I _am,_ but not about _this_. Not about you."

Eloquence was a fickle mistress who never seemed to be there when needed. Enjolras could feel Grantaire's pulse running beneath is fingers. He looked up and met an incensed glare.

"Oh God, this is _so_ not how I had picture this," he muttered to himself aloud.

From incensed, Grantaire's gaze grew confused.

"Grantaire, I'm not kissing you because of―of this," he waved a good dozen of a papers around for emphasis. Lord, did his panic seemed trivial now. He had spent so much time with his nose buried in books it had gone up to his head. There were more intoxicating fumes than that of his overworked brain.

"I kissed you because I wanted to," Enjolras continued, trying to repress the chuckle rolling up his throat. It felt surreal to say it out loud.

He gave a small tug to Grantaire's wrist as a comforting touch, but it was enough for Grantaire to lose his footing. His wobbly legs finally gave up on him and he fell to his knees. His eyes, however, never left Enjolras'. There was no anger left in them now, only disbelief and astonishment. And a glint of hope. More hope than Enjolras had ever seen on his face in two years. 

"You did?" he asked, his voice made hoarse by all the shouting.

Yes, yes he did. Enjolras raised a hand to Grantaire's cheek, but decided otherwise just before their skins touched. Instead, he brushed a curl away from his face, placing it behind his ear from the tip of his fingers. His heart was throbbing up to the edge of his lips. Grantaire's gaze didn't falter, still fixed on him, mesmerised. Enjolras nodded slowly, his fingers still brushing Grantaire's ear.

"I'd like to do it again, actually. Often," he confessed.

 _In more appropriate circumstances,_  he thought. Be damned the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"If that's okay with you," he added aloud.

Evidently, kissing Grantaire without preemptive warning wasn't a great plan. Enjolras lowered his hand to cradle Grantaire's cheek and leaned slightly, giving him the agency. He had taken the lead in kissing matters too many times today. He waited for a reaction, his thumb running on the soft skin. Damn, he looked so beautiful. Enjolras bent his back a bit more.

Grantaire sprung to his feet, crushing their lips together, tipping Enjolras backwards. The surprised gasp escaping Enjolras at the pleasant charge turned into a relieved chuckle. He didn't care the bed was uncomfortable. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about the corners of the flashcards who were lightly stabbing his back. All the cared about was Grantaire's weight pressing against his body, the hand wandering in his neck and the breathless laughter that answered his.

A long series of laughs echoed through the room, only interrupted by playful, jovial kisses. Enjolras wanted to map Grantaire's lips down to the most obscure detail, to conquer them, to claim them his. As for Grantaire, he seemed to share his ideals of conquest. At last, something they agreed on. If Enjolras' breath was short, it was no longer due to exam pressure; it was Grantaire's fault, but in the most satisfying way.

As they were slowly yet surely slipping off the bed, Grantaire took a firm grip on Enjolras' thigh and lifted him up, settling him higher on the bed. This would normally have meant more comfort if his back had not met a handful of pens and book corners. A painful reminder that exam season was still looming over him.

"Ouch," Enjolras let out, taking hold on his elbow to avoid the multiple stabbings.

"Shit, sorry!"

Out of sheer exasperation, he swept the load of school supplies out of his way, pelting the parquet. Taking this as an incentive, Grantaire began to clear up the bed as well, sending mountains of papers on the floor.

"Wait!" Enjolras exclaimed, looking at all his notes falling out of order.

Grantaire froze, his hands stopping immediately. The sheepish look he gave him clutched at Enjolras' heart. No, it was okay. He'd done enough for the day. And wasn't Combeferre adamant about the fact that his grades were already too good to fail? His gaze went back and forth between the revision sheets covering the floor and Grantaire's eyes. His lips. The lower one had taken an alluring Bordeaux red colour, a rare vintage he couldn't wait to feel on his tongue.

"No, it's fine, it's fine," he assured, wrapping his arms around Grantaire's neck to bring them together again, letting himself fall back on the mattress.

"Your exam," Grantaire insisted.

The kiss he was holding back was infuriatingly tantalising. Enjolras could see it, right there, on the corner of his mouth, ready to fly to him, yet delayed.

"Short break?" Enjolras suggested, not knowing who he was trying to convince more, Grantaire or himself.

 The kiss he was waiting for finally reached him, earning a contented sigh.

"Short break," Grantaire confirmed with an amused smile.

They were relentless, each embrace leading to another, always pulling closer. The part of Enjolras' brain that hadn't gone blank was wishing for that short break to last longer, to stretch every second into hours. It was okay, he was going to be okay. To make sure of it, he secured a hand on Grantaire's nape, his fingers slithering under his clothes. The skin underneath was burning. Surely, that couldn't be comfortable. Taking his hand away, he lowered it down the hem of Grantaire's jumper, attempting to remove it. It involved a lot of twisting and squirming on his part, but the wool never got higher than the waist.

"What the hell are you doing?" Grantaire laughed, realising Enjolras hands were doing more than stroking his back.

"Trying to free you from your woolen prison," he panted, a frustrated frown on his face.

Grantaire laughed some more, the vibrations of his chest tickling Enjolras'. He took the busy fingers off his back, a wrist in each hand, and pinned them on blanket. Enjolras swallowed hard. Grantaire probably hadn't intended it to be that hot, but something twisted in his abdomen, releasing an enticing heat throughout his body.

"So thoughtful of you," Grantaire purred against his neck, gently biting his flesh.

Another flare of arousal pierced Enjolras at the words. Oh, he had done it on purpose, alright. _Take hold of yourself, you're not sixteen anymore_ , he scolded himself. Yet, the short instant Grantaire took to get rid of his unnecessary layer left him cold and yearning for more. Oh lord, he really was sixteen all over again. He took it upon himself to wipe the smug smile off Grantaire's lips, attacking them, biting them. The laughing kisses had come and gone. The playfulness had turned into a merciless rivalry, each side set on consuming the other. Enjolras, who so far had only been accustomed to his own heartbeat, could dinstinctly hear a second one, each beat echoing like a cannonball. Breathless sighs had become their battle cry. Their hands had lost their initial shyness, wandering eagerly along their bodies. Fingers soothed the skin underneath them a second for nails to graze it the next. 

Enjolras rolled them on the bed, taking Grantaire's place on top. He was in dire need for air. He felt dizzy and even though it meant losing this round, he wouldn't let Grantaire believe the war was won. There were more offensives in store for him, but a soldier needs rest before an assault. Enjolras straightened his back, straddling his adversary. Oh what a pleasant sight this was, to gaze upon soon to be conquered territory. His mouth twitched into a proud smile when he saw the red beads he had left on Grantaire's neck. Each was a small crimson flag to his eyes. Was his neck sporting its own necklace of flushed pearls? If not, he had to remedy this.

It seemed the interlude was too long for Grantaire. Growing impatient, he slipped his fingers into the loops of Enjolras' jeans, meaning to bring him back down. The unexpected thrust brought their hips together, the motion hardening Enjolras' swollen cock. A thrill ran through him. More. More of this. Right now. He looked for Grantaire's eyes. He had felt it too, Enjolras could tell; there was something burning in those eyes, a hunger waiting to be satisfied. Who was he to deny a starving man? Enjolras settled a hand on his chest for support and gave a small roll of hips. A faint spark of pleasure came and vanished. A greedier motion followed. He could feel Grantaire's cock between his legs, hard against him, _for_ him. The thought flustered his cheeks and send a soft moan through his lips. The idea of Grantaire wanting him was more arousing than any touch.

From adversary, Grantaire became an ally, positioning his hands on Enjolras' thighs to guide his movements. Soon, they both figured out how to send voluptuous waves down their spines. Enjolras couldn't get enough of Grantaire, devouring him with his sight. It occurred to him that, maybe, it worked the other way around. Emboldened by the thought, he threw his head backwards with a lewd sigh and bit his lower lips, giving his audience a show he hoped to be memorable. The grip on his thigh tightened, and Enjolras held back a satisfied smile. Instead, his free hand went to undo two buttons of his shirt, uncovering a part of his chest.

Grantaire's hands were too busy to clap or ask for an encore. Fervently stroking Enjolras' thighs, they helped him settle as he sat up, pressing heaving chest against heaving chest.

"Take it off," he rasped, urgency in his voice.

He didn't wait for Enjolras to comply. He lifted his hands to do the work himself, undoing a few more buttons, kissing the skin underneath. Enjolras closed his eyes, taking in the sensation of Grantaire's tongue. The last buttons were a lost cause, and they got rid of the shirt without bothering with them. Judging it unfair to be the only one exposed, Enjolras took the hem of Grantaire's t-shirt and slipped it off him. Skin met skin, the carnal warmth hardened him even more. He had too many layers on, too many obstacles he needed to get rid of. He wanted Grantaire. He wanted _all_ of him. Grantaire seemed to share his enthusiasm, attacking his neck gingerly, muffling his pleasure against his throat. Enjolras, on the other hand, was much more vocal. Hadn't he always been, after all?

"Touch me," he whimpered.

He wanted more. He demanded more. All he craved was Grantaire's hands on him, oblivion, ecstasy.

Taking hold of Enjolras' waist, Grantaire rolled him back on the bed, laying him down on the mattress. He took place next to him, pressing his hips against Enjolras' thigh so that he could feel Grantaire's arousal. Enjolras bit his lower lip, as to remind Grantaire of his wishes. A hand trailed down his chest, hastening his breathing. When playful fingers found the bulge of his cock through his jeans, his expiration gave way to a pleased hum. Still, it wasn't enough. Grantaire seemed to understand his silent call and slipped his hand under his belt, staying out of Enjolras' underwear. The strokes became more intimate, though still blocked by a thin layer of clothing. No matter how thin it actually was, it felt like a thick partition was separating Enjolras from real, unabashed pleasure. His hips were arching by themselves, begging for more. Enjolras frowned at Grantaire's smirk. This man was impossible! He tried to utter a scolding sound, but what he had hoped to be imperious came out as whining. 

Benevolent, Grantaire finally indulged him. Enjolras' belt came undone in a swift move and his jeans, along with his boxers, slid along his thighs. The first stroke around his cock shot a jolt from his abdomen to his head. Eyes closed under the sheer bliss and Enjolras moaned softly against Grantaire's lips. Instinctively, his hand sought Grantaire belt to touch him as well, to feel him hard and expectant beneath his fingers. He had hardly reached the buckle that a fist enclosed his wrist, driving his hand away.

"No," Grantaire objected.

Enjolras' eyes flew open, fully expecting a lustful gaze to meet his own. There was, however, nothing but warm fondness in Grantaire's. He lifted the enclosed hand to his lips, kissing its palm gently, sending tickling sparks in the fingertips. 

"Let yourself go," he whispered, giving a sensual caress along Enjolras' length for emphasis

Enjolras nodded faintly, resting his hand on Grantaire's cheek, bringing their foreheads together. As the motions quickened, his fingers slipped into the mane of black curls. He had dreamed of doing this, of touching, twisting them. His breath got more and more laboured, struggling to keep up with the pleasure surging through him. There were tremors running through his inner thighs, but of a different kind than those that used to agitate him. Those were exhilarating, announcing release. Staying still was incredibly difficult, all Enjolras wanted was to squirm and twist in every direction. His head kept swaying left and right, offering his neck for Grantaire to suck.

"You're so beautiful," Grantaire purred in his ear.

The suave and lascivious tone hit him hard. His eyes snapped shut and he bit his lip to conceal a rapturous moan, unsuccessfully. A light chuckle soon followed.

"Even better."

Grantaire's motions went to an unendurable cadence, his fingers oiled with precum. Enjolras found himself tightening his grasp on the man's hair, desperately trying to hold on to something, since his sanity was too far gone. His cry of release stayed stuck in his throat, his lips parted nonetheless as he came, forehead to forehead with Grantaire.

Out of breath, Enjolras stayed against the warm body he could claim his own, the sound of his panting filling his head. The hold on Grantaire's hair relaxed, fingers brushing it softly as an apology. Enjolras let out a breathless giggle, which immediately found its echo in Grantaire. The hand that was pleasing him wrapped itself around his waist in a tender embrace. Oh. Oh, but Enjolras wasn't done with him, far from it. 

"Lie on your back," he said, his eyes burning with anticipation.

Grantaire shot him a confused glance, to which Enjolras answered with a coy smile. He took Grantaire's chin between his index and his thumb, gently opening his mouth to play with his tongue, giving him an amuse-bouche of what was to come.

"Lie on your back," he repeated, slowly pushing his weight onto Grantaire's. 

The other finally shifted and Enjolras took his place on top. An avid kiss rewarded Grantaire's compliance as Enjolras' hands fumbled with his belt buckle and zipper. The trousers loosened, he slithered his palm along Grantaire's cock, mirroring the man's teasing touches from earlier. Grantaire's reaction against his mouth was immediate, roughening the kiss further. His hand traveled upwards, ghosting over the delightfully shivering skin. He couldn't believe how bold he was. He could almost hear the adrenaline rushing through his veins. 

More than kisses, it's flushed bruises that Enjolras left on his way down, giving gentle bites, sucking the flesh at his disposal. He could see his own trail, going from Grantaire's navel to his neck. His knees hit the ground and he pulled down the last garments constricting his lover, setting him free. Enjolras kissed his inner thigh and looked up. Reclined on his elbows Grantaire was staring at him, chest heaving in anticipation. Holding his gaze, Enjolras ran his tongue over the head of Grantaire's cock, securing the base in his hand. A sharp intake of air rang to his ears, drawing a smile on the corners of his lips. Rather than taking him in, he followed a vein along his shaft, his hand stroking him painfully slowly. _Payback for your teasing_ , he thought. The raucous sighs didn't sound like a complaints. Settling his free hand on Grantaire's abdomen, Enjolras quitted the tease to finally swallow him down, bobbing his head to the rythme of his stroke.

"Oh _fuck_ ," he heard Grantaire curse, letting himself fall back on the mattress.

Taking this as an encouragement, Enjolras tightened his lips against the shaft. A hand threaded its way in his hair, slowly imposing its rhythm to the motions. The hold was gentler than that Enjolras had exerted on Grantaire's curls earlier, he noticed. He promised himself to ask him if it'd hurt too much, later. In the meantime, he followed the lilt of Grantaire pleasure. He could feel him pulsing against his tongue. _Fuck_ , this was nothing like the afternoon he had envision. Far from him to regret the change of plans, though.

The hand guiding him untangled its fingers from his hair, leaving his head.

"Enjolras," Grantaire sighed as a warning, giving him a way out.

But Enjolras was set on finishing what he had started. Instead of withdrawing, he let go of Grantaire cock to better lick its length, calling for his lover's attention. Surprised, Grantaire arched his back. Enjolras noticed the deep flush on his cheeks and the expectant twinkle in his eyes. Giving him the most lustful look he could muster, Enjolras glided the tip of his tongue over the head of his cock, titillating the sensitive flesh before taking it into his mouth. A helpless moan escaped Grantaire and languishing tilt of Enjolras' head was all he needed to come undone. Enjolras swallowed before wiping his mouth with his forearm.

He laid a final kiss under his lover's navel and found his way up, setting his head next to Grantaire's. An arm swigged around his waist, holding him tighter. Enjolras felt a sense of shyness creeping back into him, his cheeks set ablaze. 

"Oh, wait. Stay still," Grantaire warned him softly, raising a hand to his face.

His thumb swept away a streak of saliva Enjolras had missed. Even once it was all gone, his thumb stayed to caress Enjolras' skin. In return, Enjolras tentatively found the spot on Grantaire's scalp he has roughed up earlier, his finger ghosting over it, as though they were too scared to hurt him.

"Sorry about that," he offered. "I got a bit carried away."

"Don't worry about it," Grantaire smiled before planting a kiss on his forehead. "Let's put that on the throes of passion, okay? You never fall short of those."

Enjolras gave a playful tap on his shoulder, winding his arm around his partner's neck. He had been right. Quenching his thirst for Grantaire _had_ unclogged his brain. He was thinking much more clearly now, the weight on his shoulder that been lifted up. The thirst would come back, but knowing he could swill down Grantaire's lips made the prospect more enjoyable.

"Do you want to pick your notes up?" Grantaire asked.

"No," he answered, fondling him a bit more.

They stayed like this, recovering their breathing and senses for a little while. Enjolras could see all the details of Grantaire's face in close-up. He spend a few quiet minutes etching them all in his memory. The wrinkle at the corner of his eye stretched, smiling at him.

"Actually, you know what you be great, right now?" Enjolras said, breaking the silence

"No, what?"

"A shower."

He took Grantaire's hand in his and sat up slowly, his tired limb lacking energy. A long steamy shower. Yes, that sounded about right. Once on his feet, Enjolras tugged on the hand he was holding, exhorting Grantaire to get up.

"Come on, it'll save water. It's good for the planet!"

"If it's for the planet," Grantaire quipped.

* * *

Enjolras fell out of bed, disoriented. There was a high-pitched whistle ringing to his ear, threatening to burst through his skull.

_I had sex with Grantaire._

His vision was overpowered by white patches dancing in front of his eyes. He was so dizzy he had to hold on to the bedframe so he would collapse.

_I had sex with Grantaire._

The thought kept coming again and again, always louder. But soon, it got supplanted by another, more powerful epiphany :

_We were together. He loves me. He loves me. **HE LOVES ME!**_

His heart was throbbing like a sledgehammer had hit his chest. He could almost feel Grantaire's hand in his, their fingers intertwined, the heat of his skin, his smell... His smell! Finally able to focus, Enjolras jumped on the bed and grabbed the green t-shirt to smell it. Paint. Honey. Apples. There was more, more than he could discern but it was Grantaire's. It had always been Grantaire, helping him to sleep or keeping him awake at night, there was no middle ground. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre stormed into the room.

"Enjolras, are you okay?" Combeferre exclaimed as Courfeyrac ran up to him.

Only then did Enjolras realise he was loudly hyperventilating.

They both looked awfully worried. He must have made quite a mess by falling off the bed. Courfeyrac started to pat his head, looking for injuries while Enjolras calmed his lungs.

"Does anything hurt?" Combeferre asked, kneeling in front of the bed. "What happened, do you re―what are you smiling about?"

"I'm fine," Enjolras started giggling. "I'm fine. I'm so fucking fine, you guys, I'm perfect."

He meant every word, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other, visibly skeptical. Enjolras shuffle out of their well-meaning hands, sticking Grantaire's shirt into his pocket as well as he could.

"There's someone I need to see," he enthused, his smiled going up to his ears.

Enjolras slipped on his hoodie. His legs were so twitchy with excitement he could barely stay in place. _He loves me._

"You could have a concussion―"

"Ferre, I didn't fall on my head," Enjolras cut off. "The fucking _sky_ fell on me."

Taken aback, the pair stared at him as he laced his shoes. He couldn't contain himself. He had finally found x. It wasn't all the answers, but what he couldn't piece up together, Grantaire would. He grabbed is keys in the nightstand and turned towards his best friends, breathless. He hesitated between them and the door, ecstasy making the keys jiggle in his hand. Finally, he jumped on them both for a short, heart-felt hug before taking off. 

"That's it! he's lost it," Courfeyrac deplored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **Le Centre :** The French political party that, as the name suggests, is neither right or left-wig but nicely in the middle  
>  **Les Verts :** The French Green party  
>  **Amuse-bouche :** It literally means "amuse/entertain-mouth" and stands for the canapés/appetizers you get at cocktails. But it also means appetizer in the "teaser" sense of the words. It words on both the literal and figurative sense so I was "yay" :')  
>   
> Consider this a gift from me to you for sticking with this ever slow build fic! That chapter has literally been haunting me for months, especially during exam session x) Writing stressed out Enjolras didn't need ANY stretch of imagination, let me tell you. Bonus : smut writing convo with my best friend : [x](https://41.media.tumblr.com/7ae728937ed358444aa4aedb4c739247/tumblr_o2y2okZI9l1udg9clo1_400.png) [x](https://41.media.tumblr.com/9ee51a4e8bcb94e26ae92228e2cbe31a/tumblr_o2y2okZI9l1udg9clo2_400.png)  
>   
> Needless to say I can't WAIT to know what you thought about all of this. You can either hit me up in the comment section or at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) (or both!). This was such a pivotal chapter for me, Enjolras getting something back about Grantaire and WHAT MEMORY woohoo! See you next time :3


	14. Snapping the Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS! OH LORD. FINALLY.  
> This chapter is quite ~short~ but it's the kind of espresso chapter, short but intense! I'll let you get to that!  
> Good reading!
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

Enjolras' pace followed that of his heartbeat, a frenzied cadence, an incensed metronome gone wild. Even the drizzle gently poking the concrete couldn't bring his spirits down. If anything, the droplets were stimulating his memory some more, not through images but sensations. Water running down his naked skin. Hands running down his thighs. The warmth of a shower merging with Grantaire's. Lips caressing his neck. Enjolras could almost feel them now, months after. They were here, breathing mere inches away, taunting him behind a veil of reminiscence. Not for long, he thought. If he kept his steady rhythm, he'd be at the Palace in no time, and Grantaire's lips would be there, close and tangible.

The pavement was playing tricks on him, seemingly stretching out as far as his eyes could see. Was Grantaire's place really that far? It was like walking on a treadmill, never reaching destination, not matter how quick he was. The Eiffel Tower, sticking out between the building, yet miles away, felt closer. Maybe his heart had broken the sound barrier, slowing everything down around him. The feeling of ecstasy was still raging inside him, but his mind had somewhat settled. He had to get hold of himself. He couldn't just spring on Grantaire the moment the man would open the door. Enjolras needed a plan of action. Except nothing came to him. How do you subtly hint to someone you remember them pinning you against a bed? That you moaned their name under their sweet care? The world suffered from a severe lack of guidebooks on the matter, something like "Surprise Hanky-Panky Plot Twist for Dummies". Surprising Grantaire was the last thing he ought to do, God knew how that had turned out in the past, or at least the very limited past he could remember. No, he needed to be smooth about it. Grantaire's flight on the 14th of July sprung to his memory. Funny how Grantaire was always the one pulling away from kisses, Enjolras noticed. Come to think of it, why did he take off, that night? Was it the alcohol? Was it because it had felt too strange, kissing a familiar stranger? 

Enjolras took the thread of his memories and began to play each of them, navigating through an obscure maze. Each recollection was a torch glowing in the dark, bringing elements to light , yet never piercing through the obscurity. The hospital was the first thing he remembered. No, not the hospital, not really. Grantaire's voice was what he remembered the most, because he had held on to every word to anchor himself in reality. Then, it had been the hand on his shoulder, a reassuring touch to settle him down. Grantaire loved him then, Enjolras knew it now. He could recognise the caring inflection in his voice, after being reminded of was they sounded like. Then what? The diagnosis. The amnesia. Grantaire fleeing the scene as though caught red handed. Managing the news had been beyond his strength. Enjolras had died that night, at least the one Grantaire had known. If not in body, then in spirits. Just like Grantaire had died for Enjolras, in a silent and painless way. That of oblivion. Why hadn't he just told him? Grantaire's inner working was still a mystery, no matter how many memories would flow back in Enjolras' direction. He was left alone to guess what lay in the dark passages of his memories.

The thread continued. Enjolras remembered Grantaire looking tired, restless, avoiding his gaze and never addressing him directly, treating him as a stranger. His attitude had annoyed and angered Enjolras at the time, for its appearance of gratuitous contempt. Maybe the weight of the memories had exhausted Grantaire, bearing the burden alone, since Enjolras, _his_ Enjolras was no longer here to share it. He'd been in mourning. But he had to know that the memories would come back, right? That Enjolras would remember! Though it was solid, the thread somewhat frayed. He was still lost in the maze. Grantaire would explain, surely. He would bring everything to light.

One thing still bothered him. How come no one had ever mentioned them being together? Or with anyone? He had asked Courfeyrac. He had asked Marius. He could hardly imagine _Marius_ lie to his face. And yet, no one knew. No one had ever hinted anything! It was an infuriating paradox; for once, _he_ was the only one to remember something. For a second, Enjolras wondered if he wasn't completely insane. No. He couldn't have imagine _that_. It was too detailed, too real. His brain couldn't have tricked his senses to that extent. Enjolras clenched his fists. He touched the lump of Grantaire's t-shirt through his pocket to reassure himself. It was real. It had to be.

Enjolras stop walking abruptly. He had been so lost in thought that he had passed the Palace already. Paris was a different maze altogether, much simpler to handle. Enjolras turned back and retraced his steps. Everything was fine. Everything would fall in order shortly. His excitement had fused with nervousness and impatience, the feeling ever growing in his stomach as he got closer to the building. To calm himself down, Enjolras thought back to Grantaire, lying on his bed, his cheeks still flustered and their gazes sealed. _He loves me_ , he told himself once more, before pressing the intercom button. 

"Yes?" Joly's voice was unmistakable in spite of the metallic crackling.

"It's Enjolras! Is Grantaire here?"

The thought was just hitting him now. If he wasn't, so what? Where would he even begin to look for him? He couldn't sit still and wait for him to come back! 

"He's here. Physically," Joly answered.

Enjolras furrowed his brow. What was that supposed to mean?

"I'll let you in," his friend continued.

The heavy door buzzed next to him and Enjolras flung it open. He frantically pushed the lift button, but the damn thing was taking too long. Enjolras spun around, taking the stairs instead. Climbing would at least drain his sudden outburst of energy. Four flight of stairs proved him wrong. He barely took the time to catch his breath before knocking on the door. Joly's face popped up behind the panel. He looked significantly less drunk than last time Enjolras had seen him.

"Coucou toi," he smiled, stepping aside to let Enjolras in.

Enjolras tried to contain himself. Had he listened to himself, he would have sought out Grantaire, roamed through the entire flat, walked up to him and―and he didn't know from that point. Yet. He'd have to improvise on that front. But since he had not been raised in a barn, he was not going to abandon Joly on his own doorstep.

"How did the hangover go?" he asked, mindlessly brushing his shoes on the doormat. Jesus he couldn't stay in place.

"Please, I'm always a wagon ahead of you guys! There's a magical antidote called H2O, maybe you've heard of it."

"Enjolras!" a voice laughed from one of the rooms. "Is my boyfriend licking you again?"

Enjolras found himself laughing a lot harder than anticipated. Bossuet was hilarious. Joly's wink was hilarious. His euphoria knew no bounds. It was just so _good_ to know that he'd finally get to know the whole story, that he wouldn't spend another night tossing and turning, over analysis every single one of Grantaire words. The prospect of peace was intoxicating. It was the end of a journey.

"My mom found a whole box-set of _C'est Pas Sorcier_ DVDs in my bedroom, back home. We're having a marathon," Joly said, nodding toward the open door on his right. "Want to join?"

"I―er―Grantaire?" Enjolras asked.

Joly lightly hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Oh! Sure, sorry! In the living room."

His feet itched to run there.

"He's just woken up, so maybe don't expect anything too―coherent. He takes a while to surface."

Just woken up, eh? Enjolras caught a glimpse of the clock hung on the wall. 5:45PM. And _he_ thought he had trouble sleeping. A part of him wondered if Grantaire had stayed up all night thinking about what had happened the other night. Thinking about him. That was a nice concept, knowing that the other side of his longing had been reaching to him in thoughts. Enjolras used to guard himself from jumping to conclusions, but this one felt so right he couldn't help himself. _He loves me_.

"I'll scream if he bites," he promised, giving Joly a falsely confident nod.

The other snorted and dashed back to his science marathon. _Good,_ Enjolras thought, _you and me then_. It was better this way. At least he wouldn't have to drag him to another room for intimacy. His steps were curiously tentative, all of a sudden, as he walked towards the living room. The rain had doubled since he had entered the building, the drops pelting softly against the windows. For the first time in what seemed forever, Enjolras actually enjoyed of quiet symphony of it. The peaceful tune settled his mood a bit. There was no need to jump a barely conscious mind.

Grantaire had his back to him. His posture was terrible, his back bent in an angle that would have made Bahorel hiss in despair. Enjolras smiled at the state of his hair, a disordered mess sticking out in every direction, pointing at an inviting neck. He was beautiful even then. Grantaire didn't seem to have heard him coming in, as he carried on his slow waltz towards different cupboard and shelves, attempting to make what Enjolras guessed to be coffee. Or what he claimed to be coffee. He took another step, his heart beating out the rhythm of a now familiar song, pulling him forward. His lips would probably split due to his enamoured smile.

"Grantaire?" he called softly.

The hand that was reaching for the coffee jug froze into mid-air. It stayed there, petrified for a couple second, before a grunt acknowledged Enjolras' presence, thawing his fingers. Enjolras smiled some more. If this was what "incoherent" meant, he could deal with it. 

"I wanted to talk to you about something," he continued.

He stopped a fair distance from Grantaire, the kitchen island separating them. His restless fingers wandered the countertop. Grantaire, still busy with his coffee, didn't turn around to face him. Instead, he grumbled something that resembled : "Aren't you talking right now?". He poured himself a generous mug, ready to feed his insomnia. Enjolras cleared his throat, trying to get his attention.

"I remembered something."

Silence fell. Grantaire didn't flinch. Grantaire didn't speak. Grantaire didn't even seem to breathe. Far from anxious, Enjolras took his lack of response as another proof of his theory. The man was trying to avoid false hopes. If Enjolras had learnt one thing about Grantaire, it was that he was a guarded man. If only he'd turn around...

"The afternoon you came to help me with my debate, you know? The first time we," Enjolras held his word, suddenly aware of the range of phrases at his disposal. "The first time we were together."

It danced out of his lips, widening his grin. 

Something ticked in Grantaire, and his body finally came back to life. Not with a smile. Not with an embrace. Not with a kiss. With a snort. The sound froze Enjolras where he stood, from his smile to his bones.

"Together," Grantaire aped sarcastically, "Glad to know that's how you fucking call it."

Enjolras' nails scraped the surface of the kitchen island.

"I―What?" he croaked.

He felt his throat tightening, blocking his lungs. His whole being was gasping for air and security. This wasn't happening. This was just―Grantaire turned around, a smug smile smeared onto his lips. He was a mess. The stubble on his cheeks had gotten out of hand, patches of skin appearing here and there. His features were drawn, paler than usual and Enjolras noticed his exhaustion, how heavy his eyelids looked. Still, that smirk, that mocking smile bit into his flesh the hardest. The song of Enjolras' heart drifted to a distress call.

"I hardly call fucking 'being together'," he remarked off-handedly, taking a long gulp of coffee. "It's a matter of semantics."

Something was off. The words didn't make any sense. None of this did. Horrified, Enjolras took a step back. All the clues, all the signs he had seen, deciphered at last! Grantaire was playing a joke on him! A cruel one, but a joke nonetheless! Then why was his throat so parched and his hand trembling? He looked Grantaire in the eyes, searching for something, a glint of humour, of warmth. If not love, than at least affection. He found none. The man in front of him was so different from the man he had held and loved that he was barely recognisable. He was a Grantaire, but not _his_ Grantaire, not by any stretch of imagination. To wonder if the latter had ever existed.

"What?" Enjolras repeated, keeping his voice steady by biting the inside of his cheek.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, setting his mug on the counter. He had kissed him there, Enjolras recalled sorely. Grantaire had drawn on his arm, they had joked together and he had kissed him there. Right there! 

"Fucking? The hot beef injection? Opening the gates of Mordor? Pondering the unicorn? Do I really need to draw a picture here?"

He emphasised his colourful set of expressions with a lewd roll of his hips and a humourless laugh. Enjolras gaped at him. The scene was ridiculous, like a feverish dream he needed to snap out of. He was torn between slapping himself back to reality or slapping Grantaire. In the end, Grantaire provided the punch in the guise of words. He could not have delivered a more fatal blow if he had tried. 

"Anyway," he continued, nonchalantly putting away things in the cupboards. "That's what we had agreed on, remember? We fuck, you come, I come, we're all sticky and everybody's happy and then you leave! That was the deal."

"No, it wasn't," Enjolras hissed, clenching his jaw.

"Yes, it _was,"_ Grantaire insisted, his voice unexpectedly cold.

Everything in Enjolras was tense. All the radiant joy that had submerged him earlier had swirled into a bubbling anger in his stomach, a raw and bitter rage waiting to be released. Grantaire was lying. He was fucking lying, there was no other way. Disappointment and pain was prickling his skin, plucking at his heart, looking for a breach to pierce through. Enjolras tightened his fists to make it go away. Anger was easier to handle than heartache. Anger is blind and sharp. Heartbreak is an open wound.

Grantaire stopped moving around. Enjolras was greatful for the pause in his indifferent waltz between the cupboard. Instead, Grantaire leaned back against the counter, looking at Enjolras directly, unruffled. That was actually worse. Almost belittling. The lackadaisical calm against the tempest.

"What's up with you?" he sighed, crossing his arms against his chest.

"What's up with―are you fucking kidding right now? What's gotten into you? I remember!" he detached every syllable. "You and me, on my bed! You said―"

A sharp, cutting laugh escaped Grantaire.

"So you remember us fucking, so _what_?"

Enjolras rubbed a hand across his face, collecting himself not to yell. He couldn't believe this. Not a single second. Not when the Grantaire he remembered had gently kissed his forehead. Not when he had fallen to his knees in front of him. _That_ was the truth. He took a few steps back from the counter, a hand roaming through his hair. It took all of his will not to pull out a handful as he did. The din of the rain had gotten unbearable.

"You don't get to do this!" he said, his voice made lower by resentment.

Grantaire held his hands up, seemingly untroubled by his own rudeness, even _amused_ by how worked up he could get. How could he not _care_? How was that a _game_?

"You're the one storming in to talk about our sexcapades, not me. I don't know what you're on about but―"

"You thought that I was leading you on!" Enjolras cut off, pointing an accusing finger on Grantaire.

The bitter cesspool flared in his guts, threatening to erupt.

"You said you had hopes!" he continued, getting louder with each breath.

The mask that had taken the place of Grantaire's face didn't move from its fixed smirk. It was frozen in a caricature of itself, the expression almost forced. He was lying, Enjolras knew he was lying! 

"Hope of boning you! That's what I wanted!"

"That's not true!" 

There was a fine line between talking and shouting, and Enjolras didn't know on which side he stood anymore. He ached through-and-through. His mind couldn't keep up with what Grantaire was telling him and what he could have sworn on his life was true.

"You kissed me the other night! And you ran away because―"

"Because I was drunk! You would know how that works if you got rid of that stick up your ass!"

"At the hospital," Enjolras tried again, clinging desperately to any fragment of memory. "You were here! You spent the night―"

"Oh for fuck's sake! That's called being a friend! What was I supposed to do? Present you my dick? Get on with our routine and pound you on the bed?"

The more he spoke, the more Enjolras wanted to punch him. The thought scared him the moment his brain formulated it. He couldn't. He wouldn't. And yet Grantaire was doing his utmost to become the foulest individual he had ever met. 

"Bullshit! You would have said something! Instead of leaving me in the dark and―"

"Oh yeah?" Grantaire's voice had finally reached the volume of Enjolras'. "Like what? Sorry, you don't know me but we used to fuck, nice to meet you?"

"Will you _please_ stop saying that?"

"Sorry, do you need me to spell it out for you? F―"

"Grantaire."

"U―"

" _Please_ , stop it!"

"C―"

" _ **GRANTAIRE, SHUT UP!**_ "

Something in him had snapped. The thread. The fragile thing, only held together by one thin string, was torn to shreds. Grantaire's taunting had stopped, replaced by a closed expression. Enjolras was nothing but emptiness and disgust. The person facing him was a pale imitation of a fantasy, a puzzle whose pieces he had tweaked to fit together, yet didn't form a coherent picture. They had never been together. _They_ didn't fit. He should have seen that earlier. 

"Anyway," Grantaire sighed, picking up mug. "Want some coffee?"

Sickened by the mere sound of his voice, Enjolras turned away. There was nothing left to say, was there? He couldn't even look at Grantaire anymore. Hope was an awful thing to strip a man of. Grantaire had accused him of sustaining his hopes. How ironic for him to be the one taking Enjolras' away. If Enjolras had fallen short of words, Grantaire still had some venom left in him : 

"Oh come on, stay! The party just got started!" he called as Enjolras was making his way to the door. "I'm flattered of the interest you show to my dick, though!"

He wasn't even listening anymore, and yet the words still managed to break his back. Looking up, Enjolras realised Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were blocking his way out, standing by the door frame, the three of them stunned in shock. He hold his next step. Great. He didn't need that on top of everything. Musichetta looked scandalised, perpetually trying to form a sentence to ask what was going on. Enjolras was grateful for the words that never came out. He wouldn't have known what to answer. So much time wasted on nothing.

He noticed a bin at the corner of the room, just on Bossuet's left, near the door. Enjolras swallowed hard and took the crumpled t-shirt out of his pocket. The fabric felt coarse on his fingers. He hated how fond he had grown towards it, how he still clung to it. His fist closed around it, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. Aware of the gazes fixed on him, Enjolras loosened his grip and let the t-shirt fall in the bin. A lament broke out in his chest. A requiem.

"Enjolras," Bossuet whispered as Enjolras stood in front of theeir little audience, waiting for them to move aside and let him through.

Looking at them was beyond his strengths. His eyes were stuck on a fixed point just above Joly's shoulder. 

"Please," he rasped.

Yelling had irritated his throat. It was a good thing he had nothing left to say. Musichetta drew her hand towards his shoulder, but Enjolras pulled away, regretting it immediately. It wasn't their fault, he reminded himself. It was _his_.

"Please," he repeated, his voice cracking.

He took a sharp breath to contain himself. Fortunately, Bossuet seemed to clock it and stepped aside, his hand gently leading Joly out of the way. Enjolras cast a grateful glance in his direction. Bossuet gave him a short nod in response. His steps quickened once he had crossed to door to the entrance. He couldn't stay here. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. There wasn't a single memory of that place that wasn't tainted by Grantaire. Enjolras heard whispers and shouts as he yanked the door open, but didn't make out anything of what was being said. He slammed the door on his way out, the walls of the maze closing in on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **""Coucou, toi!" :** "Hiya you!"  
>  **C'est pas Sorcier :** an educational television program for children, let's call it the French equivalent to Bill Nye the science guy  
>   
>  To quote my best friend : "is it normal that I want to throw Grantaire through a window? A closed window." and then I knew : GOOD. My work here is DONE. This was relatively fun to write, as much as "crushing your character's hopes and dreams" can be fun!  
> Feel free to yell at me at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) or in the comment section, I'm just... waiting for it :') Thank you for reading and I'll see you next time :3 More angst or not, who knows? Me. I know. E.very.thing


	15. From the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this chapter took quite a while. It was infuriating because I knew exactly what I wanted to write, but the words were missing :') Plus it's rather long so that explains the delay. Anyway, here I am!
> 
> I wanted to thank you all for your support and how nice you are to me and this story! I'm always amazed at how invested you are and how thankful I am to all your comments!! My heart says capslock but my brain is telling me to restrain myself :') Seriously, thank you all SO.MUCH, you're gems!! I'm sorry to make you suffer, but in French we say "Qui aime bien châtie bien" "Who loves well hurts well" :')
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

The news had travelled fast. When he slammed the front door of the flat open, he found Combeferre and Courfeyrac already waiting for him, concern painted all over their faces. Soaked to the bone and fuming with rage, he stormed past them without offering any sort of explanation. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to bring up the subject. Ever. There was nothing to talk about, anyway.

Enjolras walked up to the bathroom door, kicking off his drenched shoes, leaving a trail of mucky water on the parquet. Too many layers, he thought. He was suffocating under the weight of rain saturated clothes and disillusionment. His rib cage had decided to recoil on itself, making it harder to breathe.

"Enjolras," Combeferre called softly behind him.

Talking wasn't an option. His lips remained sealed, holding back the scream awaiting in his throat, feeling its claws lacerating his skin. Clenching his fists, Enjolras tried his utmost to swallow it down. He couldn't take this out on them. It would ben unfair and cruel. Then again, everything seemed unfair and cruel in that very moment.

"Enj', what happened?" Courfeyrac asked tentatively. "Joly said you were upset, but—"

The rest of that sentence died behind the bathroom door. Enjolras couldn't bear the weight of another confrontation, of eyes staring at him, of explanations he couldn't give. It had been enough for one day. Isolation felt like the safest choice. Hurried and worried whispers rose from behind the door, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's voices merged together in an indistinct hum Enjolras couldn't comprehend. Oh, he couldn't _wait_ to confess himself in front of the roommate Inquisition! He turned the shower on full blast to cover their distressed murmurs.

His soaked up clothes clung to his skin, trapping him in a wet and itchy envelope. Enjolras had a sore need to escape it, his numb hands forcefully yanking at every hem. The ragged heaves of his chest barely helped his liberation attempt. His frustration increased as the layers stubbornly tightened their grip around him, no matter how hard he tugged. There was always a drenched sleeve to slip on, random buttons on which to hurt his aching hands. Every item of clothing eventually hit the tiles of the bathroom, painstakingly removed as though Enjolras had peeled off his own skin. Yet, the pressure suffocating his lungs remained. It would take far more than taking his shirt off to free himself from it.

Enjolras didn't wait for the water to get hot before throwing himself under the downpour, trading a rain shower for another. It didn't feel any different. The cold deluge glided along his numb skin, clogging up his ears, closing his eyes, making him deaf and blind to the outside world. The hail pelting against him had something comforting and anaesthetic. Chills went running down his spine when the water started to warm up. The memory of Grantaire's touch all over his body made his skin crawl. Enjolras could see them both clearly now, his back pinned against the tiles of the shower wall, sigh of entrancing pleasure escaping his mouth. He was standing just where Grantaire had stood. Nauseous at the thought, Enjolras took a step back. Enough! He didn't want to remember anymore! The void could take it all back, he didn't want any of it! Was there a single place Grantaire had not ruined for him? What was next : the kitchen table, the couch, the hallway? He tilted his face toward the shower head, wishing for the water to wash away his memory and take it down the drain, where all the waste belonged. Yet, the far off echo of his ecstasy still rang in his ears, infuriatingly inescapable.

As an attempt to distract himself, Enjolras grabbed the nearest shampoo bottle at his disposal, squeezing it harder than necessary. The plastic bent beneath his fingers, but nothing came out. His lips thinned and he pressed harder, knocking the bottle against the shower handle. Again. And again. And again. Until he threw the bottle across the room at full force, his breath shortened by anger. Unable to stop, Enjolras gritted his teeth and kept going with everything within reach, firing at an invisible spot on the wall. His desire to destroy and damage was all-consuming, flaring in his guts like rage had set him ablaze. In his fury, Enjolras pitched a bar of soap with his recovering arm, his vicious throw ending in a sharp and lacerating pain.

"Fuck!" he let out, a sob rolling out of his throat.

The seal of his lips was broken. Shivering under the hot water, Enjolras rubbed his sore arm with his hand, feeling the strained muscle beneath his touch. Another choked sob followed the first one, before an endless string of convulsions lifted his chest. He didn't know where the shower stopped and his tears began.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enj'?" Courfeyrac called, his hand audibly trying the latch to get in. The commotion had not gone unnoticed. "I've heard noises, are you alright?"

" _Fine_!" Enjolras snapped, giving himself a mental kick a second later.

Apparently, Courfeyrac had received the message, because the latch stopped slamming in vain. Fantastic. Enjolras looked around at the mess he'd made, feeling he had more than one thing to apologize for. The streaks of shower gel dripping down the tiles, for starters. He held to the shower bar, revelling in the icy coolness of the metal and rested his forehead against it to sooth his heated mind. Still panting from the crying, he focused on his breathing. The steam floating around him helped relieve the ache in his lungs, making it easier little by little.

He carefully wrapped a towel around his waist, trying not to move his right arm more than absolutely necessary. Bahorel was going to have him skinned. There was a reason the physiotherapist only let him throw foam balls during sessions. He did his best to put the various bottles back to their places, but the trickles would have to wait until he'd gotten his hand on a proper sponge. His clothes were nowhere to be found when he opened the bathroom door. The puddle of dirty water had also disappeared. _Probably Combeferre's handy work_ , Enjolras thought, a pang of guilt adding itself to the mix storming inside of him. He was responsible for his mess, having his friends cleaning it up for him made him deeply uncomfortable. All the more so considering how he'd literally shut a door to their faces.

If Combeferre and Courfeyrac heard him walk to his room, neither sprung on him armed with a myriad of questions. Enjolras got dressed quickly, his gaze resolutely fixed on the wall rather than the bed. He didn't linger in his room, by fear of triggering his memory further. The bits he already had were enough, too much even. When he came back to the bathroom, Combeferre was already scraping the mess off the tiles.

"Ferre," he sighed, his voice sheepishly trying to be firm. "Please, give me your sponge."

He held out his hand, but instead of complying, Ferre gave him a second one he had at the ready.

"Sorry, but this one has your name on it."

Enjolras cracked a small smile and took his place by his best friend. None of them said a word for a while, too busy scratching off the residue of Enjolras' anger.

"You didn't have to wash the floor, you know?" Enjolras eventually said, his eyes fixed on the tiles. "It was my mess. My mess, my problem."

Combeferre sighed next to him.

"Will you swallow your damn pride for five minutes? Of course I'm here to help you clean your mess, that's what friends are for. That doesn't mean you don't get your own sponge! Our mess, our problem.

They left the bathroom spotless fifteen minutes later, without Grantaire's name being ever mentioned in the conversation. Combeferre knew better than to ask Enjolras about the juicy details of his misfortune. He'd always been the tactful one, Enjolras reckoned. Instead, Ferre had kindly asked about his arm and what else he could do to make his life easier for the night. This man had a Pearly Gates fastpass waiting for him in Heaven.

"Actually, I was wondering if we could turn the couch into a bed, just for a week or so."

No questions asked, Combeferre had nodded before focusing his attention back on a nasty stain. Enjolras couldn't see himself sleeping in his bed, rolling in his sheets and being haunted by the bittersweet memories of an illusion. He needed some well deserved rest. If the last couple of sleepless nights had left him exhausted, Grantaire had left him cracked, finishing him with one swift blow. 

Courfeyrac offered an extra set of hands when Enjolras began to move his stuff in the living room. Enjolras kept observing him discreetly as they set the sheets on the couch, mentally establishing a list of things he had to apologise for. Yelling at his best friends was right on top of it, right next to having a secret fuck buddy. Surely, Joly had put two and two together—Grantaire had yelled "fuck" enough times to clarify the situation for the whole building—and kept the rest of their friends on the loop, including Courfeyrac.  Enjolras totally expected to be given a cold shoulder or the silent treatment—he _had_ lied by omission, after all, hadn't he? Wasn't that a betrayal of trust of some kind? But nothing in Courf's attitude screamed grudge or resentment. If anything, he behaved even warmer than usual. 

"So you're not mad at me?" Enjolras asked tentatively after setting his pillow on the makeshift bed.

"Of course I'm mad at you," Courfeyrac sighed, letting himself fall on the blanket, his head towards Enjolras. "But I'm not going to kick a man when he's down, am I? I'm not an animal."

His hand hung awkwardly in the air, looking for Enjolras', his fingers clutching at nothing until they found what they were looking for. Courfeyrac gave Enjolras a comforting squeeze.

"Are you okay?" Courf asked, though both of them knew the answer.

Enjolras nodded weakly anyway. The shower had been useful to release some steam, after all.

"You owe me a bottle of madeleine scented shampoo though. I'll have to use Ferre's manly man's shampoo in the meantime. That stuff that smell like danger and lumberjacks. Now _that_ is the real tragedy here."

Enjolras smiled. It semmed like a reasonable enough price to pay.

What was left of the evening was spent on the couch, the three of them huddled under a the blanket. Instead of their usual configuration, Enjolras got sandwiched between his roommates, the place of honour that was generally Courfeyrac's. It was probably a way to avoid cuddling by sheer force of habit, Enjolras reckoned, and though he appreciated the thoughtfulness, he didn't want to impose his heartbreak to the whole world either. It wasn't a PG rated flat. They watched Astérix et Obélix : Mission Cléopatre—chosen by Courfeyrac, presumably for its significant lack of romance—munching on leftover pizza and laughing at jokes they had heard a thousand times. The normality of the situation hit Enjolras somewhere between his first and second slice of pizza. The world was still turning on its axis. There would be a dawn tomorrow, and the day after that. The universe didn't stop because Grantaire was an unspeakable asshole. Fuck Grantaire. Yet, Enjolras felt his pulse racing at the thought of him, rousing the ache in his heart. Time healed all wounds, didn't it? He resolutely focused his attention back on the movie, shooing Grantaire out of his mind. 

* * *

"Shooing Grantaire out of his mind" became Enjolras' moto from then on. "Filling his brain with everything that wasn't Grantaire" was another way of looking at it. Enjolras took the furious resolution to do everything in his power to exhaust himself through work. Not only did this include his job at the library, but it also involved the ABC and everything around it. He would spend his days documenting himself on the job to complete his articles. There were tons of books at his disposal, after all, why not use them? It wasn't like someone died to borrow anything from the Sciences Politiques section. He'd taken the habit to meet with Marius, Bossuet and Feuilly, mixing work with pleasure—but mostly work—to talk about recent world events. Greece had rapidly become one their favorite topics, given the media coverage they were bombarded with. Enjolras would soak up Feuilly's geopolitical knowledge, Bossuet's legal analyses and Marius' European legislation insights like a sponge. They all abided by the tacit "no Grantaire mentions" law, though Enjolras was certain they all knew what had happen. Even Bossuet, who had been in the front row for the "Asshole Grantaire Show", didn't bring it up. He did look preoccupied at times, but would sweep away every inquiry with a smile. Only Marius seemed to look at him somewhat sadly, but it was nothing Enjolras couldn't dismiss with a smile and numerous variations of "I'm fine". In addition to this load, he had also decided to study his class notes. University would still be there in September, he might as well get a sense of what he had studied for the past four years.

All of this intense mental gymnastic usually left him too focused or too tired to think about unimportant—and upsetting—things. Who had the luxury to lie awake at night when their brain had been squeezed of all substance? Enjolras fuelled this manic rhythm through coffee and autosuggestion, convincing himself that it was a perfectly healthy way to deal with heartbreak. Better that than to vegetate on the couch indefinitely with only his misery for company, right? At least he was making something out of his abyss of a love life. He could think of worse outcomes.  

Enjolras had been sustaining this crazy routine for a week when he came home to a conversation he was most certainly not meant to hear. The flat was plunged in darkness, save for the gentle glow of the kitchen guiding his steps. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had probably not taken notice of the front door, because they didn't lower their voices. As hard as he tried not to ignore the conversation, the mention of his name caught Enjolras' attention. He tiptoed his way towards the kitchen and leant against the wall, trying to regulate his breathing. It took him a second to realise that he was totally eavesdropping, but he pricked up his ears anyway.

"He worries me, is all," Combeferre's voice rose from behind the partition. "I mean, it's not inherently _bad_ that he's back on the horse, but you can't really call that a horse anymore. He's on a wild hydra going at full speed."

Enjolras' lips thinned. He'd hardly call his work cadence an hydra. A feral bull, maybe.

"Yeah, I know," Courfeyrac replied shortly after. "But we can't exactly tell him to slow down, can we? That's how the man functions!"

"He'll earn himself handfuls of grey hair before August if he keeps it up. Plus, technically speaking, he's still recovering. That's a lot of stress to carry around."

There were noises of water being stirred and dishes being laid on the drying rack.

"So how do we do this?" Courfeyrac asked. "It's not like we're going to corner him and tie his hands behind his back."

"If I'm ever to be restrained in my own home, please use something easy on the wrists," Enjolras deadpanned, finally leaning on the door frame in full view, his arms crossed against his chest.

Eavesdropping had never been his forte. All things considered, staying out of a conversation had never been his forte either. His hands dripping with soapy water, Courfeyrac let the plate he was scrubbing fall back into the sink, cringing at the sound of china and glass knocking together. Or it may have been the unexpected sound of Enjolras' voice.

"Putain de bordel de merde, Enj!"

Standing next to Courfeyrac, Combeferre looked a lot less surprised than his boyfriend. If anything, he looked even amused. He gave Courfeyrac a towel with one hand and took a sip of whatever he was drinking with the other, his eyes fixed on Enjolras.

"I was thinking about polyester, actually, restraints wise," he quipped, blowing steam away from his mug. "I mean, I would have gone for silk, but my intervention budget is a bit tight these days."

"So this is an intervention, eh?" Enjolras asked, his tired head joining his shoulder against the door frame. He longed for the warm embrace of coffee. 

Enjolras would have been lying to himself if he said he wasn't expecting something like this to happen. He _had_ written fifteen articles with extensive documentation after all. That was a new record.

"I don't know. Does it _need_ to be an intervention?" Combeferre said, quirking an eyebrow over his drink for emphasis.

Courfeyrac flung the now drenched towel over his shoulder and rested a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. That man sure knew how to flash disheartening puppy eyes.

"Don't get us wrong, what you're doing is amazing! It's really great to see you back into the swing of things! But maybe—just maybe—you could give yourself some rest?"

"He means 'must'," Combeferre corrected. "Believe it or not, coffee doesn't magically turn into an elixir of life once you cross the gallon mark. I would know, I'm in med school."

Enjolras rubbed his eyes, a long sigh heaving and slumping his shoulders. He didn't have the strength to fight against those arguments. He even wondered if he had any kind of strength left for the night. The past week was taking its sore toll on him. Combeferre took Enjolras' mug from the drying rack and put the kettle on. The man could read anything, from quantum physics to body language, Enjolras thought, though he doubted Ferre was fixing him a cup of coffee. Caffeine was he was irremediably drawn to, but given the advice he'd just received, it might have been the slight addiction talking.

"Ferre and I were actually talking of something you could do to—you know—unwind," Courf continued, assuming the honeyed voice he usually saved for Combeferre.

"I'm listening," Enjolras sighed. 

"I—Really?" Courfeyrac blinked, suddenly taken aback. His hold on Enjolras' arm loosened.

"What?"

"Well, you usually take a lot more to convince! It's like I'm fighting a final boss on easy mode."

Enjolras cracked a tired yet amused smile. He was lucid enough to recognise concern when it was staring at him. A part of him did want to brush off their worries and keep on with his infernal rate, but a more reasonable—and louder—inner voice had to give his roommates a point. He wasn't feeling great. Following some sensible advice would be nice for a change, instead of obeying his piss poor coping skills. According to the drum beating in his skull, self-care could join the list of things that weren't his forté. 

"The kitchen is too small to throw a tantrum," he explained earnestly, trying to keep a straight face. "So what's the big plan?"

Knowing Courfeyrac, it could range from a trip to the spa to a spiritual retreat in the middle of the Japanese countryside. Combeferre finally joined them at the door, giving Enjolras a warm mug, the liquid giving off a soothing smell of cinnamon.

"Musichetta needs help in the garden," Combeferre explained, before drinking from his own cup.

"The garden?" Enjolras furrowed his brow, confused.

"Her garden—well—everybody's garden, really," Ferre clarified. "She needs a couple extra hands this weekend, with the heat wave and all that. She only has two green thumbs of her own."

The heat wave? Enjolras had barely noticed anything. Between the library and the flat, he had rarely taken the time to pay attention to the weather. Sure, he had thought the métro was stifling at times, but it _was_ the métro, after all.

"Gardening?" Enjolras asked, laughing in spite of himself.

"Yes, gardening," Courfeyrac encouraged, winding his arm around his friend's shoulders, showing Enjolras invisible horizons with his hand. "Fresh air. The sun. Being at one with nature! Spirituality. You need to fill those lungs with something other than dusty books."

"Are you trying to sell me a trip to Bali or something?" Enjolras teased, giving his best friend a playful nudge.

"The point stands," Combeferre settled earnestly, poorly hiding a goofy smile. "Give yourself some credit, you deserve a goddamn break."

"Agreed," Courfeyrac added.

"Agreed," Enjolras yawned, gently knocking his mug with Combeferre's to seal the deal.

* * *

Shared gardens turned out to be extremely hard to locate, despite armed with a GPS or not. Enjolras had been looking for 18 Passage des Soupirs for fifteen minutes, pacing up and down the Rue de la Chine, when he finally noticed a little alleyway cramped between a crêperie and an apartment building. Le Passage des Soupirs. The alleyway was sloping gently into the city, its white cobblestones clashing with the usual grey pavement. As Enjolras took the path, the rumble of traffic immediately quietened down, as though the walls were pressed too close together to let sounds slip in. He emerged in a big courtyard bathed in sunlight, flashing with vibrant greens and tall trees. Though enclosed by various buildings, the lush expanse was an emerald piece of countryside softening the high white walls of the city. Paris' most beautiful secrets were often the best hidden ones.

"Enjolras!"

Musichetta, Joly, and Cosette were standing next to a wooden shed, waving at him to come closer. Sun-washed pebbles creaked under his shoes.

"We were starting to think the city had swallowed you whole," Musichetta teased as she gave him a warm embrace.

He was also given a kiss on each cheek, a courtesy he extended to Cosette and Joly afterwards. Judging by their matching dungarees, they had come better prepared than him. Joly, surely wary of sunstrokes, was even sporting a straw hat for protection. Enjolras' only precaution consisted in a pair of old jeans ready to be covered in dirt and grassy trails. They were chatting idly when Chetta clapped her hands together, signaling their attention.

"Come on team," she called. "We're going to take roots! Arm yourselves. I'm not letting global warming messing up my precious babies!"

Joly and Cosette promptly proceeded to raid the shed, taking out every bit of equipment available, regardless of their use. Not that Enjolras knew anything about gardening tools, but he was pretty sure leaf rakes were an autumn thing. The gardening talk going on around him was flying way over his layman's head. Probably noticing his distress, Musichetta handed him an empty watering can and put her sunglasses on.

"Here. Fill this, Chou. The tap is on your right. I'll show you around afterward!"

Enjolras complied, eager to feel useful, one way or another. The others went about their own business around the garden, armed with an arsenal of tools. Though the sight of the overall terrace looked familiar, Enjolras didn't link it to anything specific. The hot breeze gently swaying the trees was nothing but a fleeting evocation of something distant, like a hazy childhood memory. The watering can filled, Enjolras used his stronger arm to lift it up and staggered in Chetta's direction. Not without some spillage, he let go of his heavy load next to her with a loud and wet "thump". Damn was he out of shape! Chetta, her hands buried in raspberry bushes, offered him a warm smile.

"Ah! Stellar! Thank you!"

She picked up the watering can effortlessly and began to sooth the bushes that were visibly baking under the blazing sun.

"Is this all yours then?" Enjolras asked, gesturing at the green expanse.

"Not all of it, no," she laughed. "Just that square with the rocks." She pointed at a line of white stones winding around the grass like an angular snake guarding its territory. "It's not mine per say, it's ours—everybody from the group—, but I'm the one who bought it in the first place, yeah. Can you give me a hand with the raspberries, while you're here? The damn sun's grilled a good half of them, but we can still try to salvage the rest."

"Yeah, sure!"

Chetta settled a plastic bowl between the two of them and Enjolras passed a hand through his hair to get rid of the lock hanging in front of his eyes. Sorting the dried out berries from the good was far from the most overwhelming task. The only tricky aspect was the little thorns hidden everywhere, ready to graze his skin if he forgot to be careful. He followed Musichetta's lead, dropping the dry raspberries on the ground.

"Do you get all the flowers for your flower shop from here?" he asked conversationally.

"I would have run out of business ten times already if I did!" Chetta snorted, dropping a handful of raspberries into the bowl. "I'd need fifty gardens like that and more! No, it was a gift from me to myself after finishing Law school."

Enjolras' hands stopped, suspended in mid air. He shot her a puzzled look, not sure he had heard that right. 

"Law school?"

"Yup," she hummed, smiling at his confused at his expression. "Licenced in European law! Not that I ever used that on my resume."

That detail had never been mentioned in the flashcards Courfeyrac had made him, a few months ago. Enjolras felt somewhat ashamed and frustrated with himself. He'd never thought about asking Chetta about her studies. He didn't even know how one became a florist. Was there even a diploma for that? More importantly : how does one shifts from Law to flowers?

"Didn't want to become a lawyer?"

"Not really, no. Law was never my calling to begin with."

"Flowers were?" Enjolras encouraged, trying to get her to talk more.

He hated his utter ignorance whenever it came to his friends. He'd had time to fill in the gaps, and yet, there were always more layers to uncover. It was like he'd never see the end of it! One day he'd have to sit them all down and ask them about their entire life story.

"Exactly! But my parents played the safety card and asked me to back up my resume with something serious. So I ended up in Law school."

"Did you like it?"

"Oh yeah!" she assured, though Enjolras couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. Knowing what Law School boiled down to, she probably was. "Penal code, cute boys in suits, all-nighters, that's what I'm about, son! No, for real, I had killer grades, but it just wasn't my thing. Though I did meet a cute boy while I was trapped in that particularly spicy circle of Hell!"

"Bossuet?"

Chetta laughed some more, leaning slightly against Enjolras. She always had a full body laughter, the very infectious kind.

"The very one! The only guy in my year who wore flip flops with his smart clothes in summer. How could I resist?"

His own laughter took him by surprise. After a week of severe focus and intense work, laughing felt like a breeze of fresh air. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been right. It  _was_ good for him to be out and change his mind. All the more so if he could get gems like this thrown his way.

"Then Bossuet flunked his year," Chetta continued. "And I realised I kind of missed the guy and his antics, so I asked him out on a date, and the rest is history."

"And the flower shop?"

"Oh. I took correspondence courses for two years at the same time as Law. Yeah, don't look at me like that, I know that was crazy. But it paid off! I knew what I wanted. Plus a year of real training after Law School and tada! The lack of sleep and social life was absolutely worth it!"

"Don't listen to her, she was already dating two people at the time, including yours truly," Joly quipped as he was walking past them on his way to the shed.

Chetta stuck her tongue out in her boyfriend's direction.

"Oh yeah, that happened. There was a lot of juggling that year," she sighed. "What?" she added as she noticed Enjolras' expression.

Enjolras cleared his throat, realising he'd been staring.

"No, it's just that—well—it's damn impressive! I didn't know."

He fiddled with a raspberry leaf, his gaze focused on the bushes.

"Sorry I never asked," he added, his serious tone feeling odd to his ear after such a cheerful conversation.

"Oh yeah, how dare you focus on your recovery when you could ask about every single detail of my life! I'm positively outraged!" she sassed in response.

Leaving the raspberry picking aside, Chetta gently pulled Enjolras to her and pressed a kiss to his temple. Caught off-guard, Enjolras let out an amused huff but still leaned into the touch, knowing all too well there was lipstick smeared all over his skin. Musichetta settled her sunglasses on top of her head and attempted to clean up the colourful mess with her thumb.

"Seriously, don't feel like you have to write my Wikipedia page," she said. "You have already a lot on your plate."

The earnest look she gave him was louder than her words. There was a name hanging on the edge of her lips, unsaid yet piercing Enjolras' ears. What a full plate it was indeed, Enjolras thought. Adding a single thing on it would surely tip it off its precarious balance.

"Are you guys still using your water?" Cosette interrupted, a little out of breath.

She had visibly worked a little harder than them, considering how dirty her dungarees were already. Her forehead was glistening from the heat and strands of hair had escaped her ponytail. True to herself, she was beaming nonetheless, her hands firmly settled on her hips.

"Nah, take it," Chetta assured, finishing with Enjolras' forehead. He felt like a five year old being groomed by his mother on his first day of school.

"I've just put the irises into the ground," Cosette reported, vaguely gesturing towards the other end of the garden. "Do you need me somewhere else?"

"Amazing! Thank you, ma puce. Take a look at the cherry tomatoes, perhaps? They must be ripe enough by now."

She nodded with a smile, wobbling under the weight of the watering can. She was about go on her duty when Enjolras called her back. Something had popped back in his mind, something he had neglected  :

"Hey, Cosette! I know I'm late to the party but congratulations to you and Marius."

He had been so focus on work that he had forgotten to congratulate either of them. As though, in attempting to blind a specific part of his brain, Enjolras had cast a shadow over everything going on around him. 

"I'm glad Marius finally made a move," he added with a smile

Next to him, Musichetta burst out laughing, supporting herself on his shoulder.

"Are you kidding? She grabbed him senseless and kissed him so hard his great grandfather felt it!"

"What! Really?"

Far from blushing, Cosette gave him a shameless wink.

"I'll tell you all about it if you come and help me with the tomatoes!"

Tired of missing out, Enjolras followed her across the garden. Cosette did far more than recounting that particular story, though. Eager to include Enjolras as a valuable member of the gardening team, she showed him around the garden, unveiling an unsuspected encyclopaedic knowledge as they went. He could recognise most of the flowers from his horticultural books without her help, but he listened attentively nonetheless. At least, all the research he had put into that ridiculous tattoo pretext wouldn't have been for nothing. Enjolras soon came to the realisation that knowing what a flower looked like was wholly different from taking care of it. Whoever came up with the idea that gardening was a soothing hobby had never held a rake in their life. Picking raspberries and cherry tomatoes with Chetta and Cosette had been child's play, a warm up. The real deal started when Chetta asked him to uproot a square of soil, which involved struggling against endless roots and entrenched rocks. Armed with courage and a little shovel, Enjolras waved his manners goodbye to start digging like his life depended on it, soil gathering under his fingernails and on his knees. Knelt across from him, Joly had had the common sense to wear gardening gloves before plunging elbows deep into chaos. The man looked uncharacteristically pensive, though his hands were focused. Perhaps was he one of the rare few to get the "relaxing" concept of gardening

"So what is that for, exactly?" Enjolras asked, his hand yanking at a nasty root nested deep underground.

"Cleaning the soil? It helps your plants take root. If a big rock is sitting right under your seeds, it's going to block it. And if there's a big fat root growing nearby, it's going to pump all the water for itself."

"Damn," Enjolras smiled. "It almost sounds like multinationals sucking the life out local businesses."

Joly giggled softly, his face hidden by his straw hat. Battling against a root of his own, he took the pair of shears laid next to him to get rid of it.

"I've read your articles, by the way," Joly said. "Well, not all of them. I'm not that fast of a reader. But they were really great! Especially the one about the CROUS and students' accommodations. That stuff is messed up. I remember the room I had in P1, nine meters square of misery. Thank goodness, I only stayed there for a year!"

"The thing is," Enjolras sighed," the government should starts spending more money on renovating the residences. Some of them seriously look like they're going to crumble."

Joly hummed his approval, handing Enjolras the shears for him to deal with his own root.

"How have you been?" Joly asked out of the blue, his light tone sounding somewhat false.

Enjolras knew this question was hiding somewhere. It was on everybody's lips. They never mentioned the ailment, but they all worried about the wound, and though Enjolras appreciated their concern, being a source of constant anguish was getting old. He wondered if saying the word "crumble" hadn't triggered Joly's question. Wasn't it how he had looked like the last time they had seen each other? Falling to pieces? He'd tried to bind the fragments together with books, politics and exertion, with moderate success. He could at least take a shower without feeling his bile stirring in his stomach, that was progress enough. 

"Oh—you know—working," he replied offhandedly, giving a sharp snap with the shears.

"So I've heard. Bossuet kept singing ' _This Boy's on Fire_ ' whenever I asked about you."

Enjolras welcomed that extra piece of information with a snort, shaking his head at the mental image. Knowing Bossuet, there had probably been a choreography involved each time. Now cut, the root capitulated and he extracted it easily from the ground.

"Serious how—Shoot! Must be the hospital. They always have a knack for picking the worst moments"

Thank God for whoever had decided to text Joly, because Enjolras could hardly handle another "I'm fine" passing through his lips. The last time he had been asked that question at this frequency, he'd been lying on a hospital bed.

Judging by Joly's face, the news wasn't pleasant. Enjolras saw the hint of a sigh lifting his chest.

"Duty calls?"

"Oh—er—No. Wasn't them," Joly answered elusively, quickly pocketing his phone away and slipping his gloves back on, ready to carry on.

Enjolras furrowed his brow.

"Are you okay?"

Joly vaguely nodded, moving some dirty around with his shovel, his gaze resolutely turned towards the ground.

"Joly?" Enjolras insisted.

His friend stopped his aimless shovelling and gave Enjolras a tentative look under his straw hat.

"It was Grantaire," Joly admitted, embarrassed.

Oh. Enjolras should have seen that coming. If course it was. Everyone had been so careful around him for the past week that he had forgotten Grantaire was a topic liable to come up at anytime. The name hit him like a cannonball in the stomach, and Enjolras lowered his gaze. Putting the pain on hold for seven days had done nothing to close the screaming abyss in his chest.

"How is he?" he asked, trying to sound as detached as possible, toying with his gardening claw a bit too aggressively for it to be convincing.

"I wouldn't know."

Confused, Enjolras lifted his head up, giving Joly a questioning look. They lived together, surely he'd— 

"He hasn't been home in a while," Joly confessed, probably sensing that Enjolras wouldn't give up without an answer.

Enjolras' lips parted, though nothing managed to come out of them. A million questions went rushing to his mind, the stupor keeping him from formulating any of them aloud. He's not been home in a while. Where the fuck was he then?

"He left right after you, the other day," Joly continued, visibly choosing his words carefully. "And we thought he wanted to apologise, you know? That he was running after you. But then Courf called to say you had made it home alright—and alone—so we thought he'd missed you. I texted him to come back, but he answered something vague like 'don't wait up', and we've not seen him since."

Joly's voice wavered and Enjolras saw him clenching his jaw. He didn't remember anyone coming after him in the rain. Then again it was hard to hear footsteps when they were muffled by the downpour and boiling rage. It was a good thing Grantaire hadn't come after him, Enjolras reckoned. He would certainly have punched him if he had been within fist's reach. The mere evocation of that afternoon kindled an unpleasant feeling in his chest, a residue of anger. It was quickly trapped in a whirlpool of contradicting sensations.

"What a dick!" Enjolras spatted out, trying to keep his voice levelled. "He can't just vanish like that without an explanation! I mean, you didn’t do anything to him! That's just plain dickish!"

 

Joly got rid of his gloves and sat properly on the grass, bringing his legs against his chest. This conversation had gotten too heated and heavy for peaceful gardening, it seemed.

"He still sends us a text every day," he continued, a wistful expression spreading on his features. "In a 'I'm still alive, don't worry about me' kind of way. He knows I would call the cops otherwise. That's happened before."

"Wait. He's done this before?"

Somehow, the fact that Grantaire was a serial deserter outraged him even more. He couldn't come and go on a whim! To think he had been the one accusing Enjolras to play with other people's feelings! Way to worry your friends sick! Running away really was something Grantaire excelled at, he thought bitterly.

"Grantaire doesn't exactly cope well with the weight of the world," Joly explained dolefully, giving Enjolras a meaningful look.

He didn't need to extrapolate any further for Enjolras to get his drift. Enjolras lowered his gaze, having a sudden and significant interest in his hands. Half buried into the soil, his fingers were clenching at the dirt. The image of Grantaire's tired eyes sprang back to him. How could he have missed that? All this time spent watching Grantaire from afar, being hyper aware of him, and he had never noticed his struggles?

"That's what he does when it gets too overwhelming. I guess it's like pausing the world to him. And yes, it's absolutely terrible and unhealthy, believe me, we've tried talking to him about it more times than I care to count, but it's his way to cope. He always comes home, I guess that's the upside."

"But to cope with what?" Enjolras retorted. "It makes no sense here! I'm the one who had an excuse to vanish into thin air after what happened, not him! And I didn't!"

"Didn't you, though?" Joly countered with a humourless chuckle. "You locked yourself up in a library and worked yourself to exhaustion, how is that different?"

Whatever argument Enjolras was going to defend, it choked back down his throat. Being given a reality slap by Joly was particularly biting. His friend had a valid point, he could hardly condemn walking away from problems when he had spent a whole week avoiding even thinking about his own. 

"Maybe he felt terrible for the way he treated you," Joly supplied more softly.

"Or maybe he was too much of a coward to come back," Enjolras snapped. "Let's be real, Chetta would have destroyed him on the spot! He'd rather worry you all sick than to face the consequences of his actions."

He knew immediately he had gone too far. Joly's lips thinned and the man settled his chin on his knees, holding them close against his chest. The look of resigned sadness painted on his face was unbearably poignant.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras softened, leaving his spot on the grass to sit next to Joly, rubbing his back gently.

His friend rested his head on his shoulder with a small smile.

"I get it," Joly said. "You're hurt, and I'm not excusing his attitude, I'm really not, but he's still my best friend, shitty or not."

Enjolras nodded slowly. He wouldn't tell anything aloud, but Joly was the perfect illustration of his point. Grantaire had left them to deal with the aftermath, not even taking the time to explain himself. How selfish could he be to shut the world away, not even letting his closest friends in? Enjolras thought back to Bossuet, usually so carefree yet looking so preoccupied these last few days. Grantaire had probably been weighing on his mind the whole time, too. 

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" he asked, more conversationally than anything else.

"He's currently squatting my couch," a voice sighed behind them.

Jehan was standing a few yards from them, busy tying his long hair into a bun before getting down to business. Enjolras had not even noticed Jehan in the first place. A lot of things eluded him whenever his attention was focused on Grantaire, he realised, particularly unhappy with that tendency of his. Joly promptly lifted his head off Enjolras' shoulder, the news reviving his spirits :

"What? Since when?" he asked urgently.

Jehan sat down on the spot Enjolras had previously occupied.

"He turned up last night at about two AM," Jehan said.

"How is he?" Joly insisted.

Enjolras remained silent but pricked up his ear all the same. Only now that he was quiet did he feel his heart racing in his chest. 

"Bad enough for 'Ponine not to kill him on the spot," Jehan admitted, casting a quick glance at Enjolras. "Apparently he stayed with some girls from the Beaux Arts, then he tried to crash at Montparnasse's, but he wasn't there—R found him, eventually, given that Parnasse was with me. I don't know, I guess thinking of Montparnasse led him to me. He didn't say much. He just sleeps, and I don't even know if he just fakes it so that we won't talk to him." 

His throat suddenly itchy, Enjolras swallowed hard. He hated that he cared. He hated that he felt something pinching his heart knowing that Grantaire was miserable. Indifference was the real obverse of love, not hate. What if he did regret? Next to him, Joly eagerly continued to inquire after his best friend, taking every bit of information Jehan could give him, anything :

"Did he eat anything? He tends to forget about that. Will you please make sure? Make him tea. He likes caramel tea with a teaspoon of honey. Does he l—"

"Enjolras!" Musichetta's voice called.

Enjolras turned over at the call of his name, suddenly disoriented. For a moment, he had forgotten all about the garden and why he had come here in the first place. He could try avoiding Grantaire as much as he pleased, but Grantaire always ended up catching up with him, one way or another. The worst thing was that he had actually taken in every single detail Jehan had disclosed. He shouldn't care. He didn't _have_ to care. Grantaire was just his fuck buddy after all, he had made that quite clear.

"I see you three plotting our demise! Come here, I won't deal with mutineers," Chetta joked from the other end of the garden.

Feeling as though he had received a bucket of water across the face, Enjolras got up, Joly giving him a friendly tap before going back to Jehan. His head still full of everything he had heard, Enjolras walked up to Cosette and Musichetta. Grantaire was in pain. Grantaire was selfish, and possibly a huge coward, but he was pain nonetheless. For some reason, it mattered. It really did. He could go to Jehan's place. He could leave eveything right now, climbing several flights of stairs and talk to him. The idea crossed his mind, but he wouldn't at on it. His own wounds were still wide open.

Chetta and Cosette were waiting for him next to a plump mound of branches and what he suspected to be unearthed piles of weeds.

"Are you okay?" Cosette worried.

"Grantaire is at Jehan's," he answered soberly.

The girls exchanged a look. Cosette seemed torn between relief and compassion, while Chetta nodded her head, satisfied.

"Good, that means he'll be home soon," Chetta reckoned. Enjolras took her word for it. "I've put my zesty telling off on hold for far too long. Anyway, shooting the breeze about him won't make him come back any faster!

She cracked her joints enthusiastically and settled a hand on Enjolras' shoulder to guide him around the green mound. Still preoccupied by his previous conversation, he found it hard to focus. In addition, the sun was really starting to melt his brains out. 

"Okay, see the little twigs there? They're pumpkin sprouts. I need you to spread ashes around them while Cosette pours water over them. I'd do it but I have some extreme weeding to do."

"Ashes? Why ashes?" Enjolras asked.

The intricacies of gardening were lost on him once more.

"Isn't it sterile? From dust to dust, that kind of thing?"

Cosette smiled.

"Actually, ashes are great because there's potassium in them," she taught kindly, handing Enjolras a small bucket filled with grey powder. "So the plant feeds on it and grows stronger, giving us a big fat pumpkin in October."

"The circle of life, then," Enjolras quipped.

"Something like that, yeah. Just because something's burnt to a cinder, doesn't mean something beautiful won't come out of the ashes."

* * *

 The afternoon left Enjolras with muddied pants and muddled thoughts, and the shower he took afterwards did little to clear his mind. The thick wall he had built around Grantaire had thinned and weakened, letting disruptive images seep through : Grantaire recoiled on Jehan's couch, his eyes bloodshot yet unable to rest, Grantaire's cold smirk mocking him, Grantaire going after him in the rain, Grantaire's jeering taunts roaring through his skull. Enjolras' imagination was running wild, flooded with glimpses of his own making.

He lingered in his room when he ventured in to get clean clothes and get dressed. The blue walls felt foreign after a week of absence. His disgust at the sight of the bed had waned to a mild uneasiness. Whatever ghost of a half-remembered past haunted the place, its company felt less overwhelming. Neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac had made the bed since Enjolras had left it in a hurry, triumphant and ecstatic. It had only been a little more than a week ago, but Enjolras' sense of time stretched it to months. Once dressed, he took a corner of the covers and started making the bed properly, diligently smoothing the wrinkles of the fabric. Maybe closure lay in the simplest things, or so he hoped.

Enjolras sat on the bed, his shoulder slumping from all the exercise. His whole body sighed. For once, the exhaustion was physical. It was a nice change from emotional and mental weariness. His eyes fell on the nightstand, where the books he had borrowed from the library were still waiting for him. The “Psychology” section hardly being the busiest one, Enjolras didn't feel guilty for keeping them for so long. Jehan's black paper was sticking out of one of the books, acting as a bookmark. “It keeps raining” was glistening in silver ink just above the pages. Enjolras opened it at the mark, uncovering the “JU61832” of all shapes and sizes laid on the black page. He skimmed the chapters rapidly :

“Revision of the Theory of Dreams”, “Anxiety and Instinctual Life”, “The Dissection of the Psychical Personality”

He went back to the marked page. He had probably given up his reading early on, given that he didn't remember any of this. Psychology was hardly his field of expertise. Neither was remembering things, for that matter.

_“It is useful to collect a maximum of memories on paper,” the text read. “Though this practice has sometimes been proven to be misleading, it is to be remembered that the human brain isn't a binary computer, in which information is registered without nuance. Subjectivity is a main characteristic of human beings. Writing thoughts, words, numbers down tricks the mind into remembering similar structures. There has been numerous cases of people retrieving long forgotten information through this method, be it phone numbers, addresses, passwords, bank account numbers―”_

Passwords. Enjolras' throat had suddenly got very dry and a cold chill ran along his back. Passwords. JU61832. That was the key.That was x. 

Two letters and five numbers.

He jumped off the bed, almost tripping on the piles of books scattered on the floor and rushed to his desk. He flung the drawer open and took his laptop out. The start screen was unbearably long. The familiar password page finally appeared and Enjolras had to refrain himself from smashing the keys in his haste. He pressed “enter”.

“Bienvenue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **Madeleine :** Little French [cake from heaven](https://www.google.com/search?q=madeleine&biw=1366&bih=667&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwijieX7xOXLAhXIExoKHfIzA_sQ_AUIBigB). Plus, it was created in my region, so I'm like flashing the local and national gastronomy here. [Madeleine scented shower gels](http://p1.storage.canalblog.com/11/44/936456/85838514.jpg) are definitely a thing in France because we can't keep food restricted to the kitchen  
>  **Astérix et Obélix : Mission Cléopatre :** The height of French comedy, a classic among my generation  
>  **"Putain de bordel de merde" :** French curses are terribly colourful, here it literally means : "Fucking brothel of shit" (though "putain" literally means "whore" but the meaning turned into "fuck", so the more you know)  
>  **Passage des Soupirs :** "Alleyway of Sighs" is an actual alley leading to a shared garden in Paris. It just made me laugh because Enjolras is 100% done when he can't seem to find it  
>  **Crêperie :** A restaurant where they serve crêpes, either sweet or savory pancakes  
>  **"Chou" :** A pet name that literally means "chabbage" but I swear it's cute. It'd be equal to something like "sweetheart" or ""sweetie"  
>  **Licence :** The diploma you get after three years of university  
>  **"Ma puce" :** Another pet name, literally "flea" (French people and pet names are weird), but it's liked to the idea of being small and cute  
>  **The CROUS :** A regional organisation providing services like student lodgings, restaurants etc etc  
>  **P1 :** The name of the first year of Med School  
>   
>  I know I'm letting you stew here, but that's quite a pattern I've established :') After a few chapters very Enjoltaire centered I wanted to focus on friendship because they ARE les Amis after all! And Enjolras "gets by with a little help from his friends". Also I wanted more Chetta so here it is! I like having a background, an ambiance and a whole LIFE going around them. How very Hugo of me... Anyway, I hope it's not too annoying, I'm actually hella self conscious about this x) I promise some answers next chapters (a)  
> In the meantime, your support, comments and general awesomeness is always more than appreciated at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) so feel free to come and talk to me :') Also I sometimes get people telling me they're sorry about leaving long comments... fam... fam listen... I LIVE for long comments, never hesitate :')


	16. House of Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to you all and thank you for still being here, hopefully this chapter will be worth your while!  
> It seemed hard to write at first but after a while, it just kept flowing and flowing (to be fair, I could have written so much more in this chapter but it would have been endless). Anyway! Have fun with this new chapter!
> 
> The title is a direct reference to Panic! at the Disco's ["House of Memories"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KuliCkN2oic) which could be Forget me Not's theme song, to be honest. Give it a listen and let yourself be overwhelmed by the music if you want to! :3
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

A dozen of faces stared back at Enjolras. No, not twelve. He spotted Azelma sat on Bahorel's lap and Gavroche flashing bunny ears behind Marius' head. They were all here. Enjolras stared at his desktop, a relieved chuckle escaping his lips. He had made it. He'd finally found something tangible, something he could rely on. Though his fingers were itching to explore his files, Enjolras couldn't quite take his eyes off the background picture yet. The group was quite a sight. Every single one of them was wearing a ridiculous christmas sweater, each one more outrageous than the other, though Jehan's easily took the cake. In the middle, under an over decorated Christmas tree, Courfeyrac was sprawled across Combeferre, Bossuet and Musichetta in full sexy Santa getup. Enjolras spotted himself in the crowd right next to Feuilly, holding his friend by the shoulders. It must have been Christmas of this year, he reckoned. Azelma looked roughly the same age and Combeferre's haircut hadn't radically changed. Eights months ago then.

In spite of himself, his eyes sought Grantaire's in the midst of gaudy reds and greens. He found him sat by Eponine's side, his arms wound around her waist, not smiling at the camera but at Courfeyrac's antics. The frozen laugh on his lips looked genuine enough to pinch Enjolras' heart. They had not slept together yet, not at the time that picture had been taken. Perhaps, the thought, things had been easier then.

He opened random files, unsure of what he was looking for. The amount of icons clogging his desktop was overwhelming. One of them was filled with all his class notes, another with pictures of his friend. Enjolras scrolled through them with enthusiasm, already planning to look at them with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. A third file had pictures and symbols he had surely used to make protest signs. The fourth he opened had impressive lists of book recommendations, sorted between those he had read and those he had yet to read. Le portrait de Dorian Gray sat on top of the "To Read" list, much to Enjolras' surprise. It had probably been Jehan's suggestion. He must have lured him with some postmodernist reading of the book. 

Not quite satisfied by the content of the files, Enjolras logged into his emails. As expected, an avalanche of unread messages came tumbling down his inbox. Most of them were useless, advertisements from this or that website, a newsletter or two. He kept scrolling until he found a mail titled "IMPORTANT!!!". The sender, "Maël Ferry", didn't ring a bell, but he clicked anyway :

 _Mar. 26/05/2015_ **IMPORTANT!!!**  
_Bravo. I can't believe you ditched us. I was counting on you. I'd heard you were reliable but apparently my sources were wrong. Damn, not even a message, nothing! I hope whatever changed your mind was worth it! If you're still interested, the interview will air on Tuesday night. Not that you cared, since you didn't even bother to show up. Anyway._  
_Maël Ferry_

Enjolras furrowed his brow. Of all things, a mild hate mail wasn't what he was expecting. Who was that guy? He looked at the date more closely : the 26th. No wonder he hadn't showed up, he had been in hospital that day. He wouldn't have remembered that appointment in the first place. It seemed important, whatever it was. Enjolras was about to press "reply" when he noticed a second mail from the same person :

 _Sam. 30/05/2015_ **Apologies**  
_Your roommates told me what happened to you. I'm so sorry, I really feel like a dick. I should have known you would never do that. I mean, your reputation precedes you, you're not the kind of guy who would abandon a project like that. I really feel terrible about what I said. I thought, perhaps, I could make amends around a cup of coffee, someday? I know a great place on the Boulvevard Saint-Martin. I could show you the footage of the interview, you'll tell me your thoughts._  
_Looking forward to hear from you. All the best for your recovery,_  
_Maël Ferry_

Whatever project this guy and Enjolras had together, Mäel had never bothered to contact him further. It would have been pointless to reply now, months after the events, so Enjolras closed the tab to continue exploring. Facebook didn't tell him anything new. A whole cornucopia of people had published on his wall to wish him a good recovery. The kind messages made him smile as he skimmed through them, but the fact that he didn't remember most of those people somewhat dulled their effect. He discovered with annoyance that he even had a Twitter account. He had never seen the point of that website, how can one express themselves in less than 140 characters? Courfeyrac had probably managed to convince him to set up an account, though "nagged" was certainly a more accurate description.

Enjolras stared at his screen. What now? What could he look at? _Where_ could he look at? Knowing himself, there were probably some hidden files somewhere, concealed in an obscure part of his laptop. His past-self struck him as someone bound to hide a needle in a stack of hay to protect his beloved secrecy, but that would have to wait. He was in no mood to frustrate himself with some aimless coded excavations. Or so he thought. His eyes fell on his abandoned phone as he opened the drawer again, and his curiosity peaked a second time, a rush of adrenaline bolting along his spine.

If his password worked for the laptop, it'd work for his phone.

Not losing a single second, Enjolras yanked the device out of the drawer and turned it on. His heart had resumed its race now that he was close to the finish line. He'd have full conversations, more personal pictures, memos... When the lock screen appeared, his fingers hesitated, hovering just above the numbers. Five numbers. One hundred and twenty possibilities. Only three tries. Enjolras swallowed hard. No, he wasn't that twisted, he wouldn't have switched the numbers.

He typed in "1832". Wrong PIN code.

He typed in "6183". Wrong PIN code.

Enjolras stopped, reclining against the swivel chair. One try left, that was all he had. He looked at the numbers intently, waiting for something to click, to trigger his memory. Even a gut feeling would do. He tried putting the numbers together in any kind of order : "61", "18", "63", but nothing struck him. "68". Enjolras abruptly straightened his back. "1368". _Oh my god you didn't_ , Enjolras thought. He didn't know if he wanted to high five or punch his past-self. May 13th 1968 : the biggest student demonstration France had ever seen, more than one million people flooding the street, standing up against their government. Enjolras frenetically typed the numbers in, his fingers trembling. His thumb floated over the "OK" button. It had to be that. If the biggest student revolution in all of French history didn't do the trick, nothing else would. "OK".

The numeric keyboard gave way to the start screen and Enjolras exhaled loudly, tilting his head back against the headrest of the chair. A handful of unread messages came flooding onto the screen. His absence had been sorely felt. One person in particular seem eager to contact him : "Grands airs". Grantaire. The last message dated from the night of the accident :

**Grands airs [23/05/15 21:02] ??????????????**

Enjolras was in too deep to keep himself from scrolling upwards, looking as the previous texts while ignoring the blood rushing to his ears :

 **Grands airs [23/05/15 20:59] seriously the fuck enjolras answer**  
**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:56] bitch at me all you want but Ferre is worried as fuck**  
**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:55] ???????????**  
**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:40] where are you?**

Lying on the pavement, that's where he had been, or maybe already settled in an ambulance. Grantaire had been looking for him that night. Combeferre as well, apparently. Enjolras kept scrolling up, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Whatever was in there, he knew he was going to read it. There was no stopping now. He had never been good with half-measures.

He stopped at a specific date and took a deep breath. 

 

* * *

 

Me [03/01/15 13:42] I need your help with some uni shit, you're free?

**Grands airs [03/01/15 13:44] well aren't u the one who always insist that we're all free or whatnot?**

Me [03/01/15 13:46] I'm serious

**Grands airs [03/01/15 13:47] give me 15m ok?**

Me [03/01/15 13:48] Ok

 

* * *

 

Me [03/01/15 19:54] It feels kind of lonely without you now

Me [03/01/15 19:59] Sorry that was weird

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:01] no it wasn't**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:02] sorry i was summoned to the kitchen**

Me [03/01/15 20:02] Did you tell them?

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:04] that i've seen you naked and that i'm thinking about you naked right now? Enjolras please not at the table**

Me [03/01/15 20:04] ????

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:05] no i didnt**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:05] but like**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:05] you want me to?**

Me [03/01/15 20:10] I don't know, to be honest. I mean, we're all kind of busy with revisions, you know? I don't want to disturb them. Maybe we could just wait a little? Sorry if that sounds weird

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:11] no it's fine**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:11] and please stop saying "sorry" and "weird"**

Me [03/01/15 20:08] Are you sure?

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:12] about the "sorry" and "weird"? Yeah p much**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:13] no seriously it's fine. Plus i kind of like having you all for myself**

Me [03/01/15 20:09] That's one way to see it ;)

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:16] so does that mean we're**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:16] you know**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:16] together?**

Me [03/01/15 20:17] I suppose it does :)

 

Something planted itself in Enjolras' guts, leaving him with an ice cold feeling in his stomach. _Together_. He stood up, pacing around the room with his hand still holding his phone, unable to take his eyes off the screen. Together. He'd lied. He'd lied through his teeth all along. Shaking, Enjolras scrolled down.

  

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:17] good :)**

Me [03/01/15 20:22] Are you really thinking about me naked, though?

**Grands airs [03/01/15 20:23] i can't tell whether this is a) sexting b) scolding or c) you doubting the absolute free range dumpster that is my brain**

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:13] ok pontmercy be gone but : sleep well ♥**

Me [03/01/15 23:15] Not gonna lie, that was a very Marius thing to do

Me [03/01/15 23:15] Thank you ♥ You too

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:17] is it weird if i say that i kind of want you here with me?**

Me [03/01/15 23:17] Kind of?

Me [03/01/15 23:18] And I thought we had agreed not to use the words, and I quote "sorry and weird"

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:20] don't you turn my magnificent and not at all arbitrary rules against me**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:20] *is it weird if i say that i want you here with me?**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:21] i copy/paste my texts now, the things i do for you**

Me [03/01/15 23:22] Goodnight Grantaire ♥

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:22] goodnight angel ass**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:23] (what? i've seen it. solid ten. i'm ready to believe in a superior being due to its sole existence)**

**Grands airs [03/01/15 23:25] and on the eighth day, god carved dat ass out of the purest block of marble in the land. and he saw that it was good**

Me [04/01/15 07:35] Did you really send me to sleep with an ode to my ass?

**Grands airs [04/01/15 13:12] you know nothing of poetry you animal**

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:37] managed to revise alright?**

Me [04/01/15 19:37] I'm not done yet

Me [04/01/15 19:38] I'd be revising a lot better if you were here

Me [04/01/15 19:38] ;)

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:40] look at you mister cheeky wink! I cannot believe this was destined to me. The things i've seen with my own two eyes**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:42] for real tho do you want me to come?**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:43] i realise this is blatant innuendo**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:43] but the question still stands**

Me [04/01/15 19:45] Two days in a row? That would kind of blow the whole "discreet" thing, no?

Me [04/01/15 19:46] I mean not that I /don't/ want you here. I really do

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:48] no i get it. It's fine. I've managed to survive two years and a half without sneaking into your bedroom like a lousy Romeo. Minus the cousin slaying part**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:49] unless you have a cousin who needs killing**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:49] always glad to be true to the classics**

Me [04/01/15 19:51] Ferre just asked me why I was laughing out loud and I had to make up a story about funny Leninist theories. Which is an aberration all in itself

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:53] typical russian banters. Always up to some communist hijinx**

Me [04/01/15 19:55] What about you though? Had a good day?

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:56] Oh yeah. Kept Feuilly company at the animal shelter for a while. Mostly slept. Another day in the life of me**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:57] but i've kept you from working for too long**

**Grands airs [04/01/15 19:58] dont mind me. Work Enjolras! Work!**

Me [04/01/15 19:58] ????

**Grands airs [04/01/15 20:02] YOU'VE NEVER SEEN FOREST GUMP?? Jesus and I thought Joly's movie culture was lacking! You and me, one of these days, i'll show you a world of wonders. Fasten your seatbelts homeboy**

Me [04/01/15 20:03] I'd love to :D

**Grands airs [04/01/15 20:04] only if you pass those exams with panache**

Me [04/01/15 20:06] Now THAT is what I call motivation

 

* * *

 

**Grands airs [0/01/15 08:24] you're going to be brilliant ♥**

Me [07/01/15 08:25] Thank you ♥

Me [04/01/15 10:47] It went smoothly I think :)

Me [04/01/15 10:48] Also wow you were up at 8

**Grands airs [0/01/15 12:04] sorry i fell back to sleep right after and only woke up now. To be fair i had an alarm**

Me [04/01/15 12:05] Wait. You used an alarm just for me?

**Grands airs [0/01/15 12:06] the things i'm willing to do for you. Insane**

Me [04/01/15 12:08] Grantaire. I'm super flattered. Like. Wow

Me [04/01/15 12:09] Thank you ♥

**Grands airs [0/01/15 12:11] ruining my already hectic sleep pattern for you any day ♥**

Me [04/01/15 15:18] So I have have some stuff to go over for tomorrow. Nothing too complicated but I was wondering if you'd be willing to take one for the team and help me revise. Again

**Grands airs [0/01/15 15:24] revise or revise ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ?**

Me [04/01/15 15:26] Oh god

Me [04/01/15 15:26] Revise ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

 

* * *

 

 

Me [09/01/15 21:57] Are you ok? Joly said you didn't get up at all, are you sick?

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:03] I'm a little bit better, thanks. Chetta made me some alphabet soup. So far I've spelt "nutsack" and "condom head". Bossuet snorted on an M, that was grand**

Me [09/01/15 22:05] Good. Sure though? Do you have some meds or something, for the fever?

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:06] it's not that kind of illness**

Me [09/01/15 22:07] what? Like antibiotic ones? Can't Joly get you some of those?

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:09] no i mean it's not a /physical/ thing. As in "i literally didn't have the strength to get up this morning" thing. That happens**

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:15] shit that really killed the mood, didnt it?**

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:16] listen i should have told you**

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:18] i'm sorry**

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:20] please say something**

Me [09/01/15 22:25] Sorry! My phone decided to update some shit all of a sudden! Please please please don't apologise! I'm the one who's sorry here! I never knew! Not for sure anyway. I should have known, you did show signs but I didn't know if it was just me worrying or whatnot. And I didn't even think of asking Joly Bossuet or Chetta! Grantaire I'm so sorry!

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:27] to be fair i dont exactly shout it on the rooftops**

Me [09/01/15 22:27] Can I do something? Do you want me to come over?

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:29] actually i think i'll get some rest. Get some big fat Zs. You know cause I had suuuuch an exhausting day already. What a lump. I wouldn't be a good company**

Me [09/01/15 22:30] You don't have to feel bad about getting some rest

Me [09/01/15 22:31] Do whatever you need to feel good. Take care of yourself. Sure I can't do anything?

**Grands airs [09/01/15 22:32] can i call you?**

Me [09/01/15 22:32] I'm calling you right now

 

* * *

  

Me [10/01/15 09:02] How are you feeling? ♥

**Grands airs [10/01/15 10:30] better thank you ♥**

**Grands airs [10/01/15 10:32] i really dont want to bother you tho. You have exams and stuff you have better things to do**

Me [10/01/15 10:34] Here's a news flash for you but believe it or not I do care about you. A lot

Me [10/01/15 10:35] In a "I don't want to stay idle as you're obviously unwell and staying on the phone with you actually made my night" way

Me [10/01/15 10:36] Plus I'd missed your voice

**Grands airs [10/01/15 10:38] so all of this was an elaborate scheme to trick me into talking mmhh**

Me [10/01/15 10:39] You got me

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:21] do you still have exams?**

Me [13/01/15 14:21] No why?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:22] fantastic! Because i really want to take you somewhere. Outside. As in neither of our two bedrooms. Your wallpaper is getting old**

Me [13/01/15 14:24] What about the discreet thing? You're aware that we're friends with a fuckton of people, right?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:25] where is your sense of adventure apollo? I've known you more daring!**

Me [13/01/15 14:27] Fine. So that's a date, right?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:27] it is. A secret date**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:28] a datecret**

Me [13/01/15 14:28] Where?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:30] i was thinking about an art gallery in the 8ème. And a café afterwards? Not necessarily in that order**

Me [13/01/15 14:31] When?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:32] whenever**

Me [13/01/15 14:33] You're outside the building aren't you?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 14:33] you know me so well :')**

Me [13/01/15 14:34] I'll be down in a minute

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [13/01/15 19:55] enjolras?**

Me [13/01/15 19:58] Grantaire?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:00] so i've got this thing to say but i dont want you to freak out so maybe hold on to something**

Me [13/01/15 20:01] I love you too

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:01] WELL WAY TO PULL THE RUG UNDER MY FEET**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:02] BUT YOU DO???**

Me [13/01/15 20:03] I very much do yes ♥

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:05] good :) cause i'm not in the business of pretending i'm not in love with you. I mean that shit's been going on for way too long**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:06] can i call you?**

Me [13/01/15 20:08] Actually we're in the middle of a movie, I had to retreat in the kitchen to giggle in silence like an idiot

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:09] shit**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:09] should we tell them tho? About the "together" thing?**

Me [13/01/15 20:10] Maybe yeah

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:11] you would have spilt the beans sooner or later anyway**

Me [13/01/15 20:12] HUM EXCUSE YOU but you're the one who's been calling me Apollo for the past years??? Clearly you're the one who would have blown it!

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:13] want to put that theory to the test?**

Me [13/01/15 20:15] ???? Wait for you to reveal you're the weakest link? Yes.

Me [13/01/15 20:16] What happens if I lose?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:18] technically you've already said yes so you cant back down**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:19] dunno. I'll figure out a torment**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:21] something along the lines of "distributing condoms Place de la République while being dress as a literal dick"**

Me [13/01/15 20:23] Promoting health AND humiliation. I'm in

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:25] you'd still look pretty dressed like a giant penis though**

Me [13/01/15 20:25] I'm going to choose to take this as a compliment

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:28] it was. Although you can be a dick sometimes. And I'm in love with you. I wonder what Freud would have to say about that**

Me [13/01/15 20:29] Jfc

Me [13/01/15 20:30] Can you say it again though?

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:31] what that you're a dick sometimes? To be fair so am i, and at a higher frequency**

Me [13/01/15 20:32] No not that part

Me [13/01/15 20:34] But I do apologise if I come off like that sometimes :( It's rarely against anyone in particular, I get carried away, stress and all...

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:36] i get it dont worry ♥ dont apollogise. HAHA apollogise**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:37] and i love you ♥**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:37] i love you**

**Grands airs [13/01/15 20:38] i love you**

Me [13/01/15 20:39] I LOVE YOU ♥

 

* * *

 

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:36] ok so dont freak out but im going to hit on that girl with the iron man shirt**

Me [18/01/15 22:37] ????? Why????

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:38] to keep the cover! Just giving you a heads up in case you'd want to make a scene or whatnot**

Me [18/01/15 22:39] Ok

Me [18/01/15 22:40] You're not going to kiss her, are you?

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:42] no im not**

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:43] why? Would that make you jealous?**

Me [18/01/15 22:44] No

Me [18/01/15 22:44] Yes

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:45] i wont kiss her**

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:46] but youre more than welcome to take all that jealousy on me later ;)**

Me [18/01/15 22:46] Oh am I?

**Grands airs [18/01/15 22:47] nothing would please me more :')**

Me [18/01/15 22:47] Be careful what you wish for :')

 

* * *

 

Me [18/01/15 23:31] Supply room

**Grands airs [18/01/15 23:32] coming**

Me [18/01/15 23:32] Oh you're going to do just that alright

  

* * *

 

 

Me [01/02/15 11:16] I'd like us to get tested

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:18] wow good morning to you too sunshine**

Me [01/02/15 11:19] Maybe that was a bit blunt

Me [01/02/15 11:20] But really, I want us to get tested

Me [01/02/15 11:23] There's no shame in wanting to know if we're both healthy. There's a whole stigma around it because "men don't talk about that kind of stuff" not to mention slut shaming but that's just bullshit. It's called being a responsible adult and taking care of your partner!

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:26] so you want to take me on a romantic stroll to the lab?**

Me [01/02/15 11:26] Something like that

Me [01/02/15 11:27] You don't want to?

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:29] of course i do**

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:29] that's just a very "couple" thing to do wow**

Me [01/02/15 11:30] I know

Me [01/02/15 11:31] It's a big step

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:32] am i going to receive a ring along with the test results?**

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:33] because im an opal kind of guy just fyi. None of that diamond bullshit**

Me [01/02/15 11:35] You idiot ♥

**Grands airs [01/02/15 11:36] your idiot hopefully**

Me [01/02/15 11:37] Yes ♥

 

* * *

 

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:12] thanks for coming over mon ange ♥**

Me [05/02/15 18:13] Of course i did ♥

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:15] did Chetta tip you off? Because otherwise you have mean 6 th "my boyfriend needs me" senses**

Me [05/02/15 18:17] Actually I figured it out myself. When you don't reply within 24h, something is generally wrong

Me [05/02/15 18:17] I'm glad I could be here ♥

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:20] im sorry for being like this**

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:20] really**

Me [05/02/15 18:21] You hardly chose depression with fries on the side

Me [05/02/15 18:23] You're doing the best you can at the moment. I'm very proud of you. And you're more than that

Me [05/02/15 18:25] You're funny, super talented. You have crazy party tricks. You're thoughtful and kind

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:27] omg stop that i'm blushing**

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:28] thank you ♥**

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:30] i just try very hard you know? It's just super shitty to feel good for a while and then it hits you back in the face like "lol bitch you thought"**

Me [05/02/15 18:32] Like I said : you have nothing to be ashamed of. Mental health is just as important as physical health

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:35] arent you scared about the blood test?**

Me [05/02/15 18:37] No, not really. Are you?

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:38] i don't know. It kind of stresses me out**

Me [05/02/15 18:40] There's nothing you can do about it now anyway. I'll text you when I receive the results.

**Grands airs [05/02/15 18:41] you do that**

 

* * *

 

Me [08/02/15 15:54] I received the results

**Grands airs [08/02/15 15:56] of your exams or those of the blood test?**

Me [08/02/15 15:57] The blood test

**Grands airs [08/02/15 15:58] i'll check the mailbox**

**Grands airs [08/02/15 16:04] have you opened it yet?**

Me [08/02/15 16:06] No I was waiting for you

**Grands airs [08/02/15 16:08] ok you know what i'm calling you i don't want to open that on my own**

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [08/02/15 17:15] i'm taking you out for dinner to celebrate my unexpected health :)! I know a great place!**

Me [08/02/15 17:18] Can't wait ♥ :D

Me [08/02/15 17:20] Could you coax Chetta and the Chettlings into having a date outside? Just so that we can "celebrate" at yours? ;)

**Grands airs [08/02/15 17:23] chetta and the chettlings should be band name. That my good sir sounds feasible :)**

**Grands airs [08/02/15 17:25] also don't "" me, J Gatsby is throwing a party in your pants tonight and you'll tell your grandchildren about it!**

Me [08/02/15 17:27] I didn't understand this reference :')

**Grands airs [08/02/15 17:29] i'll explain in details :')**

 

* * *

 

**Grands airs [20/02/15 02:45] im sorry about what i said earlier**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 02:50] enjolras???????**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 02:54] i know you're awake i can see you checking your phone**

Me [20/02/15 03:00] Three sleeping bags away and you still manage to nag me

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:02] i'm sorry. I went too far**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:04] not to blame it on Eponine's sangria but that shit was potent. It didn't help**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:04] anyway**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:05] please dont be mad :(**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:07] for the RECORD i can hear you sigh. Im literally a yard away from you**

Me [20/02/15 03:08] How did you know it wasn't Baz?

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:10] cause baz doesn't sigh, baz hurricanes. Plus i know you, i know what you sound like**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:12] come on let me make it up to you ok?**

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:13] i could fix you something sweet in the kitchen**

Me [20/02/15 03:16] I'm listening

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:17] there are some cookie crisps in the pantry...**

Me [20/02/15 03:19] Are you really trying to get on my good side with industrial breakfast cereals?

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:20] question is: is it working?**

Me [20/02/15 03:21] Yes

**Grands airs [20/02/15 03:23] good meet me in the kitchen**

 

* * *

 

**Grands airs [27/02/15 18:03] still good for tonight mon ange?**

Me [27/02/15 18:15] I have a colle tomorrow I can't I'm sorry I forgot :/

**Grands airs [27/02/15 18:23] it's alright**

**Grands airs [27/02/15 18:25] i get to eat your popcorn so it's a win on my side really**

**Grands airs [27/02/15 18:27] make me proud**

Me [27/02/15 18:29] I love you ♥

**Grands airs [27/02/15 18:30] i love you too ♥**

 

* * *

 

Me [06/03/15 22:56] What are you doing?

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:00] reading. You?**

Me [06/03/15 23:02] Same. An article Jehan gave me about gendered products and how fucked up it is. It's really great

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:05] so great that you felt compelled to text me to escape it?**

Me [06/03/15 23:07] No it really is! What are you reading?

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:09] rereading dorian gray. Oscar wilde gives me an artistic boner**

Me [06/03/15 23:11] Never had the pleasure to read it but I'm going to take your word for it

Me [06/03/15 23:12] I know the basic plot

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:15] i'm picturing you as dorian just fyi**

Me [06/03/15 23:16] Why?

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:19] because he's described as the hottest piece of ass london has ever seen**

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:21] there is a quote that remind me of you a lot :**

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:26] the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history**

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:28] you should get that tattooed on you**

Me [06/03/15 23:30] pppfffffttt be serious

**Grands airs [06/03/15 23:31] i am wilde**

 

* * *

 

 

Me [17/03/15 20:55] Still mad at me?

**Grands airs [06/03/15 21:15] somewhat**

Me [17/03/15 21:19] Would it help to know that I'm sorry?

**Grands airs [06/03/15 21:20] somewhat**

Me [17/03/15 21:21] I'm sorry

**Grands airs [06/03/15 21:23] i know**

Me [17/03/15 21:25] I really am though

**Grands airs [06/03/15 21:27] can i call you?**

Me [17/03/15 21:29] of course ♥

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [28/03/15 16:37] free to hang tonight? We have the Palace to ourselves ;)**

Me [28/03/15 16:45] I can't I'm sorry :/

**Grands airs [28/03/15 16:45] k.**

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:12] enjolras?**

Me [28/03/15 19:14] Grantaire?

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:17] maybe that's none of my business but**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:18] i think you should call your mom**

Me [28/03/15 19:20] ....Why in hell would I do that?

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:23] because she obviously still cares about her only son**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:25] from what you told me it's your dad you have a beef with**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:26] i don't think your mom should be put in the same boat**

Me [28/03/15 19:28] Why are we even talking about this already?

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:30] because it's important**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:31] you talk about her like you miss her**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:33] plus im great with parents. Parents love me**

Me [10/04/15 19:36] You're a self employed artist who can barely keep a steady shaving pattern. Parents hate you

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:38] touché mon ange touché**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:41] think about it though**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:42] im just sayin**

Me [28/03/15 19:46] What do you want her to do anyway? Give us the key to the beach house at Deauville?

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:48] well i wasnt thinking about /that/ but now that you mention it that's pretty sweet**

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:50] just you and me. At the beach. Going around naked**

Me [10/04/15 19:53] Mmmmhhh i'll admit feeling a certain appeal to that yes

Me [10/04/15 19:55] I'll think about it

**Grands airs [10/04/15 19:56] good ♥**

 

* * *

 

 

Me [17/04/15 12:03] Are you trying to make me lose the bet on purpose?

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:10] ?????? no?????**

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:11] im an incredibly good player, i'll have you know**

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:11] besides no need to plot your demise, you'll give it away soon enough**

Me [17/04/15 12:12] You leave your underwear literally EVERYWHERE

Me [17/04/15 12:13] That's not what I call fair play!

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:15] sounds like you really dont want to lose**

Me [17/04/15 12:17] Sounds about right yeah

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:19] or maybe you just don't want to you know**

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:19] tell them**

Me [17/04/15 12:20] ???? No?

Me [17/04/15 12:21] Are you feeling ok?

Me [17/04/15 12:21] Because it kind of feels like you don't

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:22] im fine.**

Me [17/04/15 12:24] Ok.

**Grands airs [17/04/15 12:25] dont you . me**

 

* * *

 

 

Me [18/04/15 00:45] Goodnight ♥

**Grands airs [18/04/15 00:50] goodnight ♥**

Me [18/04/15 00:52] Sorry for being a dick

**Grands airs [18/04/15 00:53] sorry for being an ass**

Me [18/04/15 00:54] We make quite a pair

**Grands airs [18/04/15 00:55] i know right?**

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [15/05/15 21:17] fuck the bet i want to tell them**

Me [15/05/15 21:22] For real?

**Grands airs [15/05/15 21:23] yeah...**

**Grands airs [15/05/15 21:23] if you want to...**

Me [15/05/15 21:24] Of course I do

Me [15/05/15 21:25] When?

**Grands airs [15/05/15 21:27] the post-partiels party? That leaves us a week**

Me [15/05/15 21:30] Sounds good to me! :)

Me [15/05/15 21:31] Just so we're clear : that means I won, right?

**Grands airs [15/05/15 21:32] oh god shut.up**

Me [15/05/15 21:33] Whatever you say /boyfriend/ :')

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [18/05/15 17:36] where are you, the movie starts in like 5 min ???**

Me [18/05/15 17:40] Shit sorry! There's this conference at uni and I totally forgot!

Me [18/05/15 17:41] Damn mon coeur I'm so sorry :(

**Grands airs [18/05/15 17:42] it's fine**

Me [18/05/15 17:43] I want a whole report when I see you! :)

**Grands airs [18/05/15 17:42] sure thing.**

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [22/05/15 01:23] where were you?**

Me [22/05/15 01:33] Oh wow ok LISTEN : so you know that guy at the bar? With the "Let Me Get This Straight I'm Not" shirt? Ok so his name is Maël and he's fantastic. He manages the LGBTQA+ centre in the 11ème arrondissement and he's an ABC subscriber! And France 2 is going to interview him at the centre next Tuesday and he asked me to come??? To talk??? On TV???? I'm so hype right now!!!!!!!!!!

Me [22/05/15 01:35] Sorry I left you guys so early but!!!!!!!! It's so so great! Combeferre is begging me to shut up :')))) Best.thing.ever! Congratulate Bossuet for his partiels on my behalf!!

Me [22/05/15 01:36] Hope you had a great time!

**Grands airs [22/05/15 01:40] oh**

**Grands airs [22/05/15 01:40] great**

**Grands airs [22/05/15 01:41] that's cool**

**Grands airs [22/05/15 01:41] congrats.**

 

* * *

 

 

Me [23/05/15 18:15] Do you mind if I come over to the Palace?

Me [23/05/15 18:17] Courf and Ferre are being loud and I need to write the whole "speech on national TV" thing

Me [23/05/15 18:18] Still can't believe this is happening!!!!!!!!

**Grands airs [23/05/15 18:25] k.**

Me [23/05/15 18:26] Great :)

 

* * *

 

 

**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:40] where are you?**

**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:55] ???????????**

**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:56] bitch at me all you want but ferre is worried as fuck**

**Grands airs [23/05/15 20:59] seriously the fuck enjolras answer!**

**Grands airs [23/05/15 21:02] ??????????????**

 

* * *

 

Everything in Enjolras felt numb and overwhelmed at the same time. He passed a shaky hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but nothing could ease the tremors running along his limbs. They were together. They loved each other. _Had_ loved each other. And he had fucked it all up in the most magistral way possible. A rancid taste grew in his throat as he reread his own texts. He lost count of the times Grantaire had wanted to see him, only for Enjolras to refuse or excuse himself. He bit the inside of his cheek towards the end of the thread. Letting the others in on the secret had been Grantaire's wish, not his.

He stood up, resuming his pacing around, trying to control the impulse urging him to kick everything within reach. It was his fault, everything was his fault. Grantaire had trusted him and he hadn't held his end of the bargain! What had he been thinking? Grantaire's gentle tone rang to his ears when Enjolras thought back to his awakening at the hospital. Grantaire had stayed with him all night after the accident. He had cried for him, only for Enjolras to disappear, replaced by this whole new person who didn't even knew Grantaire's name. Enjolras wasn't even sure he deserved the care in the first place. He had deserted the man long before the memory loss.

The pain Enjolras had been feeling for a mere week had been Grantaire's everyday burden for months. The realisation made Enjolras nauseous. He had been so unfair to him, so fucking unfair. Grantaire's life had become a series of pretences. He was the actor of his own tragedy, alone on an empty stage, trying to make a comedy out of a void. 

 _I've ruined him_ , Enjolras thought.

The room had become too cramped for the screams of his thoughts. He needed some air, he needed to move, he needed to evacuate that feeling of guilt eating him up from the inside. Enjolras fled the flat as quickly as he could, losing himself in the streets. Were his past-self made out of flesh and bones, he would have punched him, no questions asked. And yet it were his choices that had led him down this path, whether he wanted it or not. It was _his_ fault. The devil's advocate whispered in his ear : "But Grantaire lied. _He_ made things difficult when he could have told the truth. _He_ is to blame". Enjolras shook his head, shooing the idea away. No. Grantaire had every right to want him out of his life. It was even a wonder he had put up with some much for so long. He had fucked up, he had fucked up so bad. 

The destination didn't matter, his feet just needed movement to ground himself in reality. Staying in place would have driven him insane. Enjolras was looking at the big picture now, the whole thing finally coming together. No matter the angle, his own flaws and mistakes stood out like crevices on a wall. Grantaire's lies were thin harmless craquelures in comparison. Enjolras kept an infernal pace, his eyes stuck on the pavement. He had to make this right. He had to make Grantaire understand! He could go up to Jehan's right away and maybe, just maybe, he could explain hims—

A honk blew his eardrums out. Panicked, Enjolras crashed backwards, breaking his fall with his good arm. His heart jumped in his throat, blocking his respiration. He cast distressed glances everywhere, ready to be hit by a car at any second. The sensation felt awfully familiar, triggering the fight or flight response in his brain. A yard away from him, a car stopped with a painful screeching of tyres. If the driver had every intention of giving Enjolras a piece of his mind, his comment died at the sight of the reckless pedestrian. Recoiled on himself, Enjolras was hugging himself tight, his whole body shaking from shock. He was still waiting for the impact, for something to crush him.

"Gamin? Gamin, are you okay?"

Enjolras felt a hand stroking his arm, but the touch did nothing to sooth him. If anything, he pulled away, the contact against his skin feeling like sandpaper. He couldn't shake the familiarity of the sensation. It was crawling underneath his skin, twisting viciously in his veins. It bit his flesh, reopening forgotten scars. Feeling a sharp pain in his recovering arm, Enjolras hold himself tighter. The worried whispers around him were broken by a thunderclap ripping the clear sky apart. All of a sudden, there was rain trickling down his body. All of a sudden he was whole again. All of a sudden he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **Le portrait de Dorian Gray :** The French title of "The Picture of Dorian Gray". French never capitalises lexical words in titles hence the lower case at "portrait". We also generally call it "Dorian Gray"  
>  **mar. :** mardi, aka Tuesday  
>  **sam. :** samedi, aka Saturday  
>  **Mai 68 :** I've already put this in a trivia once but it was months ago : the month of May 1968 saw the rise of socialist movements in France, particularly from students with really huge protests and poignant slogans. Exactly the type of thing Enjolras would revel in. I headcanon that he's read absolutely everything about the topic, that precious nerd :')  
>  **Grands airs :** Of course that's a pun with Grantaire, "se donner des grands airs" can be translated to "to be high and mighty" aka feeling superior. I headcanon this as a joke for the sake of the pun, probably made by Bossuet one day while R was talking about art in a very detailed and professional way  
>  **8ème / 11ème :** These are arrondissement, districts, in Paris. "ème" is the French equivalent to "th"  
>  **Colles :** comes from the expression "poser une colle" aka "ask a trick question" and they are regular one hour (sometimes more) exams students have. Some degrees have them (I don't, thank GOD) but some do.  
>  **Deauville :** A seaside city in Normandy. Basically where the rich go because of the hotels and casinos. Expensive as F trust me on this, i have fallen victim to this  
>  **partiel :** the french word for "finals"  
>  **"Gamin" :** Kid  
>   
>  Here we go, ANSWERS. Well most of them. Check yourself before you wreck yourself Enjolras, Grantaire isn't the only one with a history of fucking up.  
> I really liked changing the format a bit and seeing the raw material just like Enjolras sees it. Because there are only the texts and nothing attached to them, not the hesitant fingers when they type, the smiles when they read, their annoyance sometimes, I let your minds go wild and picture what you see behind them. Texts are just the iceberg of a relationship but they're so revealing and intimate! It' a running theme for this fic to have partial answers but never the whole thing, isn't it? :')  
> Anyway, R's texts were the funniest thing to write, though he uses his humour to hide deeper stuff  
>   
> Also, **important annoucement:** Exam season is back! Which means I don't know when I'll be posting the next chapter. Things are getting a little crazy towards the end of the year. I'll officially be on summer break on May 14th though, so there is something to look forward to! Hopefully there will be a lot more fics from that point on :')  
>   
>  As ever, you're free to yell at me and throw pitchforks at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com)! Comments and kudos are also light up my world big time, so don't hesitate to shine in the comments :3 Have a great day!


	17. The Good, The Bad and The Dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, it's been a MONTH! Oh wow, time flies. Anyway, here I am, I'm back! And with a brand new chapter, nothing less!  
> If anyone is interested, exam season went well, even better than expected, so that's at least something to celebrate! I don't know anything about your school systems, maybe you still have exams, if so: GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL ♥
> 
> Anyway, here it goes, enjoy!!
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

The Parisian sky might have been clouding over, but nothing could rain on Enjolras' parade. He was on top of the world. Maël's proposal had been as unexpected as it had been welcome. A spot on national TV was a golden opportunity Enjolras would be a fool to refuse! The ABC blog was one thing, accessible to all, a collective endeavour he loved with all his heart, but it was preaching to the choir. Those who read it were already militants or, at least, knew a bare minimum about the issues discussed. Discussing sexuality and representation on a national level, that was a whole different story!

He had a smile that never seemed to leave his lips. Oh, Grantaire would love it! Well, maybe not _love_ it, he was a sceptical man by nature, but he would be of great help. There was nothing like having a boyfriend with constant opposing ideas to build an argumentation! Perhaps, if Enjolras found the right words, he would even get Grantaire to talk as well. He had an awful lot to say, even though he had never thrown any of his ideas or arguments online. He was more of a talker than a writer, Enjolras had realised a long time ago. Maybe being in front of the camera would kindle a spark of political interest in Grantaire, or so he hoped.

Light on his feet, Enjolras had bolted to the Palace immediately after receiving the approval from the master of the house. He needed somewhere calm, somewhere where he could brainstorm ideas and confront points of view. His own flat would have been perfect, hadn't his roommates been engaged in a very heated and noisy makeout session on the couch. With Courfeyrac practically indented within the cushions and Ferre's glasses almost covered in steam, Enjolras had given up on their help for the time being.

He pressed the button of the intercom several times, eager to get started.

"Mmmh?" a hoarse and metallic voice rose from the device.

Clearly, Grantaire had just gotten out of bed.

"It's me," Enjolras sang, flashing a wide grin Grantaire couldn't see.

There was a bit of mumbling before the door whirred next to him. Enjolras would have liked Grantaire to be fully awake for the brainstorm, but he would do the trick. In no mood to take the elevator, he rushed up the stairs, his bag banging against his lap. His mind was buzzing with ideas: _don't forget to throw shade at the Manif pour Tous movement, mix some of your experiences in the explanations―people like concrete examples―maybe get Jehan and Bahorel to participate, does Maël have numbers to rely on?_ He'd have to write everything down as soon as possible before he forgot.

Enjolras didn't bother knocking and stormed into the Palace. No need for redundant civilities, he had seen Bossuet's ass enough times to stop caring about intrusions. He found Grantaire standing by the living room door, looking more awake than Enjolras had expected. Good, no need to lose time in coffee making, that considerably quickened the process.

"Ah, great! Here you are!" he enthused, taking spirited strides towards him. "Are the others here?"

"Gone to the movies," Grantaire said.

"Damn shame! Chetta always has excellent points! I'll have to call her later."

Taking advantage of that rare moment of privacy, Enjolras pressed a vigorous kiss on Grantaire's cheek. There was something pungent hanging in his breath, or so Enjolras thought, but his mind was too caught up in excitement to linger on that detail. Instead, he rushed into the living room, holding the strap of his crossbody bag in the air, triumphant.

"It's going to be amazing!" he announced proudly, settling behind the kitchen counter.

He took a handful of papers out of the bag, spreading them onto the work surface to get an overall view of his notes. He'd spent his morning researching and printing out stuff from the internet, rereading ABC articles and digging into his old files. This interview needed to be perfect, absolutely perfect. Enjolras was ready to sacrifice sleeping hours for it to be so. If need be, he'd cover the dark circles forming under his eyes with foundation.

A highlighter in hand, he started circling some important points his eyes found on the pages.

"So, I was thinking," he began, his eyes fixed on his research. "I could begin by thanking the government for the step they took in legalising gay marriage. I mean, it's not every day that you can actually _thank_ the government for something they did right. Then I could continue with the things that we still have to improve. I've been thinking about introducing asexuality and aromantism, plus their demi counterparts because God knows we're still in the dark ages on that front! Same with gender identities, there is so much to say! I don't know about polyamorous relationships yet, I'll have to ask Chetta if she thinks I should include it right away. I mean, I really want to explain in details and I'd rather have all of their opinions about it. I definitely want to talk about it, I'll just need to know where I should place it. Do you think I could―"

"So you're really going to pretend nothing happened?"

Focused on his task, Enjolras didn't register the sharp tone right away. He was still smiling when he raised his head to meet Grantaire's eyes. There was not a hint of a smile in return.

"Though I guess 'nothing' is a key word, here," he added coldly, his arms crossed against his chest.

Enjolras blinked and straightened his back. Whatever it was, Grantaire was pissed. Standing a few feet behind the counter, his hard steely stare froze Enjolras' fire in a single second and cut the wings he was soaring with. The pressure of the room suddenly felt heavy in his lungs.

"What?" Enjolras let out loud and clear, almost a shout against the thick silence reigning between them.

"Oh _please_."

Enjolras opened his mouth once more, but found that he had nothing to say. What did he do? Caught off guard, he had a hard time digging anything up. It had to be something big for Grantaire to be that angry, but just couldn't―

" _Fuck_ , so you really _did_ forget!" Grantaire exclaimed with a raucous, humourless laugh. "Oh, wow! I thought, I don't know, that you were nervous or that you were fucking someone else but _that_ , wow! That's a new low, even for me!"

Nailed where he stood, Enjolras watched as Grantaire furiously raked a hand through his hair, pacing around the room with heavy steps. From a distance, he could see Grantaire's jaw clenching under the weight of words he was still chewing, ready to spit them out. The only pacing Enjolras could manage was that of his frantic heart.

"Grantaire, what are you talking about?"

"The post-partiel party? The big reveal? You ditching me for whatever his name is?"

The realisation pierced through Enjolras like a bolt of lightning. A raw, poisonous feeling quickly spread from his guts to the rest of his body, making him nauseous. He had forgotten! How could he have forgotten, he was―

"Oh fuck," he whispered, his distress ringing to his ears. "Oh _fuck_! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Grantaire, I'm so sorry! I don't know what happened I just―It slipped my mind. I was talking with Maël and the conversation dragged on and―mon coeur, I'm so sorry!"

He was at a loss for words. He rushed around the counter, meaning to offer a face to face apology.

"Yeah, sure you are," Grantaire snarked.

Enjolras furrowed his brow and held his steps. Standing halfway between Grantaire and the counter, his apology got stuck in his throat. Sure, he had made a mistake but there was no need for Grantaire to speak to him that way!

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You avoid me for days and the moment we're about to go official you vanish! How do you think that looks?"

"I wasn't―I'm sorry, I really am, but it was a unique opportunity!"

There was nothing apologetic left in Enjolras' voice. The more Grantaire talked, the less he made sense. Avoiding him? Since when? The force driving his enthusiasm kindled something else, something cold and sharp.

"An opportunity?" Grantaire repeated in disbelief, as though the words slashed his lips.

His disgusted tone drove Enjolras up to the wall.

"Don't you understand how big this is? We could have a national impact! With Maël we could—"

"Oh no, I understand completely! I'm _so_ glad wonder boy waltzed in to make your mouth water with equality, that's—like—my _favourite_ part of the story!"

Enjolras let out an indignant huff, crossing his arms defensively. It was ridiculous! _Grantaire_ was ridiculous! All the hiccups of the past few weeks came rushing back into him. The mild arguments, the distance, the slight tension. Enjolras had put that on exams, on stress. He wasn't so sure now.

"Are you even listening to yourself? Have you been drinking?"

The lack of denial from Grantaire incensed Enjolras even more. He _knew_ he had smelt something in his breath!

"Oh my god, you _have_!"

Enjolras saw Grantaire's lips thin and his fist grow tighter under the accusation he hadn't even bothered to contradict.

"We drank 'till four! You would know if you'd been there!" he finally argued.

Unconvinced, Enjolras rolled his eyes at the gratuitous low blow. _God_ , he could be so petty!

"Would it kill you to understand I had a good reason not to be there? That interview could start—"

"Because you think that's going to change anything?" Grantaire sneered, apparently set on being as insufferable as possible. "That you're going to show up all smiles and absolve humanity of its sins? That's your excuse?"

The jeers torched what was left of Enjolras' patience. Abandoning his defensive position, he let his arms go free, punctuating his words with agitated movements.

"We could have told the others any other day! It doesn't matter! That opportunity was unique! It was important to me!" he shouted.

"I thought I was important too!" Grantaire shouted back.

Something pinched at Enjolras' heart, but he thwarted the feeling immediately, shielding himself behind a cold hard wall. Anger had made him deaf to the distress in Grantaire's shout and the slight crack in his voice, blind to the tremors agitating his hands. He was too far gone to notice. If Grantaire had been looking for a fight, Enjolras would give him one.

"Some things are bigger than us, Grantaire! I thought after all that time you'd finally get that!"

Anger twisted Grantaire's features, making it easier for Enjolras to forget he loved him. He was a wholly different person, a selfish bastard who did nothing but ridicule Enjolras' goals. What did he even see in him?

"So what, you thought you could fuck some ideals into me?" Grantaire barked with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"You know what? Fuck you! _God_ , sometimes I wonder—"

Enjolras held back the words and swallowed them down. As furious as he was, he wasn't ready for them. His fists balled up, Enjolras retreated behind the counter. He needed to get out of there and fast.

"No, come on, please, finish that thought," Grantaire encouraged coldly.

"Drop it," Enjolras retorted sharply, his eyes fixed on his notes. Maybe if he could gather them quickly enough—

"No, apparently it's honesty hour, come on," Grantaire kept going, his voice gaining in decibels.

Enjolras felt his pulse washing through his ears. He tightened his fists some more, his nails digging into his palms.

"Grantaire st—," he tried through clenched teeth.

"Say it!"

"Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing with you!"

In a literal blow, the words threw Grantaire off balance, making him take a step back. For a split second, Enjolras felt horrifyingly free, light as though he had unloaded a burden holding him down. Then why did he feel so cold? Icy nails lacerated his back. The blaring silence was crushing him.

"Grantaire..."

"Get out."

It was an order, the harsh tone left no doubt about it. Grantaire's gaze might have been staring into the void, but his voice was sure and deep. The guilt Enjolras had felt slipt away as fast as it had come. He began gathering his things hastily, stacking the papers together into a messy pile.

"Get out!" Grantaire repeated, louder this time. Almost pleading.

"Gladly!" Enjolras snarled back, shoving the papers in his bag, damaging his work.

He kept his eyes fixed on the wall ahead as he strode past Grantaire, his fingers clenched on the strap of his bag.

"Thanks for your help!" he spat out sarcastically.

"Va crever," Enjolras heard behind him.

He flung the door open and hurtled down the stairs. The door slammed back violently shortly after, but Enjolras paid it no mind. He had steam of his own to release.

The fresh air did nothing to sooth his heated mind. If anything, the downpour that had started falling riled him up even more. His head was already too noisy at it was. The rain hitting him like a thousand bullets, Enjolras strode on with the firm intention to put as much distance as possible between him and Grantaire.

He couldn't loosen his grip on his bag. He couldn't relax a single muscle in his body. Who the fuck did Grantaire think he was? Years of work and he was supposed to abandon it? Enjolras replayed all the disgust and anger Grantaire had fired at him, in an attempt to curb any other emotion than blinding rage.

"Fuck him," Enjolras mumbled under his breath

The rain was shedding a grey curtain over the city, making it hard to make anything out. Enjolras navigated the street by muscle memory, his eyes resolutely fixed ahead while his mind was far gone. The sheer nerve! He still couldn't believe it! He had apologised! He had tried to talk some sense in that thick skull of his but had Grantaire listened? No, monsieur Grantaire had been too busy complaining and taking his little desires for priorities while thousands of people could benefit from—

A horn blew his ears off. Two bright unseeing eyes stared at him. Breaks screamed in agony. Something wet and viscid ran along his arm. Enjolras knew it wasn't water. His head hit the asphalt and he faded away.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras' efforts to draw long, calm breaths only resulted in halting inspirations. His throat refused to let anything in, but it gladly let bile out. Feeling a violent spasm lifting his chest, Enjolras spread his knees timely enough to spare his jeans. He didn't manage, however, guarantee the safety of his shoes. His feet seemed incredibly far away, small and unreachable. The dizzying waltz scrambling his brain distorted everything in sight. Blinking furiously, Enjolras realised he was sat on a bench. Or, rather, that someone had sat him there.

"I'm calling an ambulance, gamin. You look like death!"

"No!" Enjolras panicked. No, not the hospital, he was fine, he was completely fine! "Please. My—My friend's a doctor."

His voice was as shaky as his arms. He tried to hug himself tighter, but the cold was coming from within. His mind was bursting with information, images, sensations. The overload made him nauseous again. Making a better job of it this time, Enjolras managed to reel up to the nearest bin before another spasm shook him from head to toe.

"Here," said the man behind him, holding out a tissue.

Enjolras supported himself on wobbly knees, leaning against the bin, a hand clasping the edge as tight as he could. He spat in the bag before wiping his mouth with the tissue.

"Thanks," he croaked with a grateful nod.

"Gamin, I think you really need a medic. You're almost see-through!"

"I've got a doctor," Enjolras assured weakly. "I—can you call him?"

"Sure, but just—sit down, okay? I'll call him, what's his number?"

The man wrapped a careful arm around Enjolras' shoulders to guide him back to the bench. Enjolras could hear his footsteps resounding in his skull like cannonballs.

"06, 84—," he started reciting effortlessly.

The numbers unfolded in his brain like they had always been there. He knew Combeferre's number. Of course he did. He knew Courfeyrac's, Feuilly's, Bossuet's, Grantaire's—Grantaire. The sickening feeling in his stomach was nothing compared to that of his heart. Guilt wasn't something he could unload in a plastic bag.

His middleman stood a few feet away, waiting for Combeferre to pick up, eyeing Enjolras as though he was about to faint at any second. Lost in thought, Enjolras only heard snatches of conversation:

"I've got your friend here. He's not feeling too well. He said you were a doctor—are you a doctor? I almost ran him over and now he—"

He had left Grantaire alone. He had forgotten about him and left him alone. And then he had yelled at him for being upset. Hell was truly paved with good intentions. Enjolras closed his eyes and took his head in his hands. In the darkness, blue eyes stared back at him. Where his past-self had only seen disgust and anger, Enjolras could read pain and sadness. There was a hint of betrayal burning there, too. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, Grantaire's hurt from a thousand cuts. _I let that happen_ , Enjolras thought. _I did it myself._

"Enjolras?" a voice called.

Enjolras started and looked up. The man was still holding his phone, ready to put it back in his pocket. Combeferre must have told him his name while he wasn't listening.

"Your friend is coming to get you. You're going to be just fine."

They sat side by side, Enjolras' waste between them. Enjolras didn't feel like talking, and apparently neither did his company, so they stayed there in silence, waiting for Combeferre to arrive. Enjolras' thoughts were loud enough without adding small talk to them.

Combeferre appeared at the corner of the street incredibly fast, closely followed by Courfeyrac. Instantly, Enjolras got up, his hands groping around for something to hold on to. It was like seeing them for the first time. Enjolras could remember Combeferre during his first year med school. He could remember the day Courfeyrac got his ear pierced, the time Combeferre cut his hair. He was seeing them all at once. Somewhere amidst the inrush of memories, tears had started pouring down his cheeks.

Enjolras threw himself against Combeferre, his chest convulsing violently. He felt his friend's arms clasping him tight.

"The hai—haircut you had i—in P1," he sobbed, letting incoherent thoughts flooding through his mouth. "You k—kept saying you didn't h—have time to cut your hair, so you l—let it grow. It was r—ridiculous." He didn't know if he was crying or laughing anymore. "Courf said he hated it, but I kn—knew he loved it because he loved you. But you kept playing cat and mouse. You two were insufferable."

Combeferre laughed, adding the heaves of his chest to Enjolras'. Enjolras felt a hard kiss against his temple.

"I fucked up, Ferre. I fucked up so bad and I don't know if I can fix it," he whimpered, holding his best friend closer.

"It's okay," Combeferre whispered. "You're okay, that's all that matters."

No sooner had Enjolras left Ferre's arms that he found himself in Courf's, his best friend cutting his already laboured breathing short.

"Please don't make this a habit," Courfeyrac whispered, giving him a squeeze before examining his face for any injury. Enjolras noticed Courf's puffy red eyes and his trembling lower lip, but said nothing of it. He probably didn't look any better. His best friend wrinkled his nose as he saw the spatter on Enjolras' shoes.

"I threw up," he explained sheepishly.

"It's alright," Courfeyrac assured softly, rubbing Enjolras' shoulders. "We can clean them when we get back home. It doesn't matter."

Glancing over his shoulder, Enjolras saw Combeferre talking to the driver. From what he could make out, his friend was thanking the man with a warm handshake. They both looked back and Enjolras nodded his gratitude.

The journey home was silent for the most part, Courfeyrac holding Enjolras' arm to keep him from stumbling and—Enjolras suspected—to avoid any possible encounter with yet another car. Combeferre occasionally rubbed his back, asking him if he was okay or needed a break. He always refused. If his feet stopped at any point, Enjolras knew he wouldn't be able to continue.

Once home, Ferre took off the soiled shoes and settled Enjolras on the couch, where his makeshift bed was waiting for him. The contact of the pillow was a balm to his soul. Though still weak, Enjolras insisted on telling them the whole story, from the beginning to the end, the best and the worst parts. The memories flowed easily, finally making sense. Looking over Courfeyrac's shoulder, Enjolras could see the spot where his best friends had kissed for the first time. Looking over Combeferre's, he could see the mistletoe they had hung to the ceiling, two and a half years ago, and Feuilly and Bahorel kissing shamelessly under it. Suddenly, the living room had a hundred stories to tell.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac listened attentively, never cutting him off. Enjolras saw them join hands when he mentioned the accident. By the end of it all, he could see Courfeyrac fighting back his tears, while Combeferre had a grave expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry," Courfeyrac said, wiping the corner of his eye with a sniffle.

"What for?"

"If we hadn't been kissing like idiots, if we had been there to help you with the interview that'd never have happened," he explained sadly.

Combeferre hold his boyfriend closer, rubbing his arm gently.

"It's not The Butterfly Effect, mon coeur. What happened happened. It's not your fault."

"No, it's mine," Enjolras assured somberly. "It got myself into this mess."

"Grantaire sure had a hand in it too," Combeferre argued matter-of-factly.

Enjolras nodded slowly. He knew Grantaire wasn't innocent, that he was at fault too, but ultimately, Enjolras had started it. Grantaire had been horrible, but he had been careless. He had pushed all the wrong buttons and had done it with full intent to harm. Grantaire had been scared and insecure, it had been self preservation on his part. All Enjolras had done was taking offence without trying to understand, making him the guiltiest party out of them.

"So you remember everything?" Courfeyrac asked on a slightly lighter note.

"I think I do," Enjolras answered with a small smile

Courfeyrac leaned over and squeezed his hand.

"That's at least something to be happy about!" he enthused warmly, his smile broadening Enjolras'. "How do you want to celebrate?"

Behind Courfeyrac, Combeferre looked ready to offer his medical input, but Enjolras beat him to it, knowing all too well what he was going to say.

"A nap, perhaps? I just need to get rid of that splitting headache before I can think about partying. I'll just get my phone and—"

"I'll get it!" Courfeyrac beamed, jumping off his seat.

The two remaining parties watched him go with a smile. Enjolras tucked himself in with a few grunts. He'd probably wake up with a few bruises the next day.

"Need anything else?" Combeferre asked.

"A time machine so that I can fight Past Me?"

Combeferre laughed and stood up to let Enjolras rest.

"Shame I didn't take civil engineering," Ferre chuckled as he walk past him.

"Damn shame indeed."

Courfeyrac hurried back in the room and put Enjolras' phone within reach on the coffee table.

"Thanks Courf"

"No worries. Holler if you need anything, okay?" Courfeyrac said, passing a hand through his friend's hair.

Enjolras nodded and soon found himself alone in the room. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contact list until he found Eponine's name.  
  


**Me [19:47] I need your help for something important**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _French trivia of the day :_  
>  **La Manif pour Tous :** "The Demonstration for All" was the French anti same-sex adoption and families movement, let's just say Enjolras probably wouldn't be a fan  
>  **"Va crever :** It literally means "Go die". It's the crown jewel of empty threats and things we say without even thinking about it, but in that instance it rings a little too true for comfort. You hear it quite often in France and it has a meaning closer to "fuck off" than "go die" per say. "Crever" means "die" but in a very informal way, almost always linked to animals, so that's maaaybe not the nicest thing  
>  **gamin :** kid  
>  **P1 :** the first year of med school  
>   
>  And that, kids, is why you communicate with your partner! I know what you're going to say, it's PAINFUL. Yes. Yes it is, believe me, I WROTE IT. Fun fact: I wrote the whole quarrel dialogue during an exam because I had finished early. I always end up coming up with stuff in dire situations ugh.  
> I love the fact that they're both guilty, they both blame each other but it really took two to fuck up aaaahhh those idiots! That boyfriends business is harder in practice! Also FEAR NOT this is the last cliffhanger you'll ever get! I know, I had started to make a habit of letting you hanging, but it's over. Next chapter will be wholesome, I promise! Only 3 chapters left CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???  
> The title of this chapter comes from Panic! at the Disco's [The Good, The Bad and The Dirty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nu55xS1TdoU) (yes, I like Panic! a lot, I know). I just kept thinking about that song because Enjolras and Grantaire do fight dirty and the lyrics were so appropriate:  
> "If you wanna start a fight // You better throw the first punch // Make it a good one  
> and  
> "And you been gone so long // I forgot what you feel like // But I'm not gonna think about that right now  
>   
> Also I'll take advantage of this section to tell you the **Enjoltaire Week** is going on from June 5th to June 10th on tumblr so if anyone wants to make content, it's be amazing!!! Being a community and all that! *-* [Information to be found here](http://apolloandr.tumblr.com/post/144718187774/exr-week-2016-hello-citizens-so-this-year-i-am)  
>   
>   
>  Feel free to agonise in my inbox at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com), I feel y'all are going to yell at me ~for some reason~! Always a big sucker for kudos and comments, your feedback is the air I breathe and keeps me alive, so never hesitate, friend! ♥


	18. No Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there!  
> I know I've been away for a while, but I have a good excuse, a GREAT excuse! Since Barricade Day came and went I wrote some seasonal canon era fic, plus Enjoltaire Week plus the time for my beta to correct this chapter, you know how it goes.  
> So this means that if you want, you'll get two more fics in addition to this chapter! Yay, triple reading! More about this in the end notes!
> 
> But now be sure that my n°1 priority is this one fic, this bloody fic who only has two chapters left oh my can you believe it?? I sure can't! Anyway, here is this chapter, have a good read!
> 
> Betaed by [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

Grantaire shuffled under his blanket, breaking into a surly groan. There was only one conclusion to draw from the stinging surge of annoyance running through him: he was awake. Though, to be fair, he had never really been asleep in the first place. His mind just kept going back and forth between moments of blurry lucidity and the ongoing trial happening in his brain. The court was well furnished. Grantaire was his own judge and prosecutor, which quickened the sentencing process tremendously. Only his attorney was missing. He wasn't one to play the devil's advocate.

The list of his offences was still ringing in his ears when Grantaire risked a peek out of the blanket, expecting to be blinded by the light of day. Though any level of brightness felt like a personal attack to his retinas, someone had been merciful and had pulled down the blinds to limit the damage. The blanket was also a kindness he did not remember receiving. It was definitely Jehan's, judging by the pattern.

Grantaire straightened his back, giving his scalp a rough scratch, trying to rub off the accusing voices lodged in his conscience. He spotted a glass of water on the coffee table along with a bowl of what had probably once been cereals. The mixture must have sat there was a while, for it had turned into an unappealing gloopy soup. Grantaire ran the spoon accompanying the whole thing through the paste, letting a few gooey clusters fall back into the bowl with a wet sound. He wasn't hungry anyway. A small card left on the table read "Eat and Drink, please" in Jehan's elegant handwriting. Unfit to stomach anything, Grantaire only granted half of the request and took a sip of water. It had warmed, but it helped with his cotton mouth.

An angry noise made him choke on his gulp. Coughing a lung out, Grantaire roamed through a pile of random papers and magazines until his hand closed on his phone. The device was protesting violently against solitude and confinement. Given the number of unread messages, Grantaire understood he had not stirred out of sleep on his own. To his utmost surprise, Joly wasn't responsible for the spam.

 **Hep 'Ponine [18:14] I need you at the palace**  
**Hep 'Ponine [18:14] It's really important**  
**Hep 'Ponine [18:17] :(**

Frowny face. Eponine's use of frowny faces was limited enough to make it sound serious. Grantaire rubbed a hand against his ever growing scruff. Slumped on Jehan's couch, he reclined a bit more, his chin rested agains his chest.

Me [18:18] im at your place

Dragging his body wrapped in that three day old shirt in the streets was one thing. Musichetta spotting him in that three day old shirt and his overall corpse aesthetic was another. She'd probably plunge him in a bath of acid, just to be sure the grime was all gone. Grantaire was in no mood to be lectured. The week had been rough enough.

 **Hep 'Ponine [18:19] That's why i need you to come here, because i'm not at my place**  
**Hep 'Ponine [18:20] Come on please. Youre the only one who can help!**

'Please', in Eponine's vocabulary, stood in the same category as frowny faces, a little box called "I'm using these on purpose to make you understand the urgency of the situation". Grantaire stared at the screen, this bloodshot eyes itching against the brightness. There was no way around her request, and he knew it. If Eponine called, Grantaire would answer. That's how things worked between them. He already owed her for being allowed to crash on her and Jehan's couch without any major―though well deserved―ass whooping.

Grantaire let out a ragged sigh. Fine, he'd risk the acid bath and parental sermon. If he had a bit of luck, Musichetta would still be busy at the shop or would be out with the boys for a drink. It was what happened when he wasn't there, right? Life went on normally without him in the picture. Grantaire gathered all his energy and sloppily lunged off the couch, his limp body having lost the habit of sudden movements. No, Musichetta would be there, of course she would be there. When did Grantaire ever have any luck, anyway?

He didn't bother to look at himself in the mirror before leaving. He already had a clear idea of what he looked like. Thank God the hangovered hobo look was fashionable these days. Locking the door behind him wasn't necessary either. Even if he had had the key, no respectable burglar would go through the trouble of climbing that many stairs just to steal a lava lamp.

The sun felt strange on his skin, almost too warm. He had been avoiding the light of day lately, going out at night to find refuge somewhere else when his various hosts had seen too much of him. He couldn't blame them. There was only so much he could ask from distant friends and acquaintances. Most of them had been kind enough not to ask question and let him wallow in peace and misery. Others had seen their inquiries unanswered, while Grantaire had added "parasite" and "sponger" to the list of his offences. They kept adding up, piling up in a stack thicker than the phone book.

His throat tightened at the sight of the Palace, standing like an accusing finger in the skyline. It was home, but too much had happened between those walls for it to be welcoming. Grantaire lowered his eyes, unable to look at the window of his flat. The sky was clear, yet he couldn't help but to hear the rain hitting the glass, a haunting echo of the last time he stood by that very window. He could hear Enjolras' angry and desperate shouts and see the embitterment flooding in his eyes. They followed Grantaire everywhere like a searing mark of Cain. He had become a matryoshka of bullshit, each new layer hiding more lies and guilt than the previous one.

Out of habit, Grantaire patted his pockets to find his keys. The trousers he was wearing weren't even his, he noticed.

"Fuck."

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his bloody keys. They were probably waiting between the cushions of Floéral's couch, or whoever's couch he had been squatting after hers. Great, fan-fucking-tastic. He pressed the intercom button with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a bomb detonator. His nerves screamed in relief as Eponine's voice rose from the interface.

"Yes?" she snapped.

Whatever her problem was, she didn't wish to be disturbed.

"It's me," Grantaire sighed, running a hand over his face. "Lost my keys."

"Oh..."

For a fleeting moment, he wondered what classified him as a hot mess the most: losing his keys while doing virtually nothing, feeding off stale crisps and frozen pizza for a week or wearing dirty clothes that weren't even his. Oh he _really_ hoped Musichetta wasn't around.

The door buzzed next to him. Unable to muster the strength to climb up the stairs, Grantaire took the lift. The whole ride consisted in him staring at his feet, avoiding the mirrors and reflective surfaces. It was like having five other selves, each as detestable as the original one. All things considered, he should have taken the stairs.

The ringing of the bell tinkled like sweet deliverance to his ears. It only took a few strides to be standing by his door. His hand on the handle, Grantaire hesitated. It felt strange to knock on his own door, and he was expected, after all, but he couldn't barge in after days of absence like nothing had happened, could he? He gave two small knock. His knuckles had barely left of the wood that Eponine flung the door open.

"Heard you ordered a fuck-up."

There was no trace of humour in Grantaire's voice. He reckoned he had lost it between the fifth or sixth day of hermithood.

"Apparently I did, yeah," Eponine answered, looking at him from head to toe with ill-concealed bewilderment. Grantaire guessed it was because she had not seen him up since he had taken hold of her couch. "Come."

Her grip felt urgent. God what had she done? It had to be bad, for her to call him, of all people! Eponine led him towards the kitchen, not pipping a word. A hundred scenarios unfolded in Grantaire's mind. Something had leaked. A pipe had burst. She had broken one of Chetta's fancy kitchen gadget. She had burnt the kitchen to ashes. She―

Behind him, the door closed with a bang. Grantaire blinked, confused. Eponine was no longer holding his arm, in fact, she was nowhere to be seen. Lost, he looked around.

"Ep―"

The eyes staring at him weren't Eponine's. Grantaire froze under their scrutiny, terrified of what they could do to him. They had undone him so many times he could already feel his knees shake beneath him. Enjolras cleared his throat, but Grantaire didn't give him time to speak before he rushed at the door, violently shaking the handle. It didn't open. Someone had locked it. Desperate to escape, he drummed against the door, pressing all his weight on the panel.

"Eponine! Open the door!" he growled.

No one answered, so he drummed harder.

"Open the door or I'll smash it down!" he yelled.

Grantaire doubted he had the strength to carry out that threat, but he knew what adrenaline could do to a tired body. He was more terrified of facing Enjolras than he was worried about breaking every door in the flat, that was for damn sure.

"Grantaire! Grantaire, stop! No one will open the door before we've talked!" Enjolras exclaimed.

"Yeah, right! Thank you, but no thank you! What is this, an intervention?"

If that door wouldn't give, Grantaire would try the others. He was too exhausted. He couldn't do this. He couldn't handle Enjolras' disappointment. None of the doors he tried let him through. Eponine's texts sprang up back to his memory, the deception finally clicking in his mind. They had prepared this. It was a premeditated operation. A seething wound flared up in his stomach, releasing more strength against the closed ways out.

"Grantaire, please!"

No, no, no. He knew what he was going to hear, that he was an asshole, that he had no right to do what he did, that he didn't deserve those who cares for him. He knew all that, he didn't need to hear it from his mouth! The walls were closing in on him, making the room smaller at each locked door, bringing him closer to his confrontation with Enjolras. The air became scarce and thick.

"Will you listen for two minutes at least?" Enjolras kept calling, too calmly not to set Grantaire on edge.

"No, I won't. As pleasant as this has been, I'm out of here!"

His fist returned to the first door, his violent knocks almost begging Eponine to have mercy on him. He didn't know how much more his drained soul could take.

"Grantaire, I remember! I remember everything!"

Grantaire froze, one hand in the air, the other brutally closed around the handle. Terror snapped each and every one of his nerves with a painful strike, sending a slashing jolt through him. His eyes stared at the door and next thing he knew, he was no longer master of himself. His tension set his hands free, beating the woodwork as hard as he could. Breaking a bone was nothing compared to the pain raging through him. It was a visceral need, an urge to hurl himself out of there, or to knock himself out doing it.

"Eponine, please!" he shouted, concealing the sob rising in his throat behind clenched teeth.

Eponine had led him straight into an ambush and he hadn't seen anything coming! More than helpless, Grantaire was enraged. Like all trapped and wounded animals, the only defense mechanism he still could pull off was baring his teeth, hoping to intimidate his predator. His brain could still pretend he was shaking with anger, not fear.

"Look at me."

Enjolras' voice came from much closer. Grantaire shivered as though his breath has tickled his skin. The trial that had been roaring in his brain was coming to its verdict, and Enjolras would be the one to hammer it down. It was only fair, Grantaire thought, to be condemned by the one he had wronged the most.

His hand slipped along the panel, sore fingers falling by his side, defeated. Grantaire got a glimpse of what his life would look like, after this conversation. Most of his friends would certainly see his true colours then, as someone who had lied for six months, and then lied again, to cover how much he had fucked up. Combeferre and Courfeyrac would side with Enjolras, hating him for all the hurt he had caused. Feuilly as well, he guessed. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta would grow tired of him and would probably ask him to pack his shit and leave. He had brought it upon himself, yet the thought still carved his flesh like a knife, stinging his already itchy eyes. Grantaire did his best to swallow his tears as he turned around slowly. Enjolras' gaze was too heavy to hold, so he stared at his chest instead.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire's head snapped up, his brows furrowed. Surely he had misheard that.

"What?" he croaked

"I'm sorry," Enjolras repeated.

He did look sorry, now that Grantaire was looking at him properly. He just couldn't fathom _why_. There was a respectable distance between them, as though Enjolras had wished to leave him some kind of personal space. His confusion must have bled onto his face because Enjolras frowned ever so slightly at the lack of reaction.

"For the way I spoke to you, the night of the accident," he specified.

Grantaire felt his fist ball up at the evocation.

"I was wrong and I know that now," Enjolras continued, hurrying up his speech as though Grantaire would resume his door-drumming at any second. "I let my ambitions speak through me without trying to understand how you felt. I was doing the right thing by the cause, but I wasn't doing the right thing by you, and I only have myself to blame for that."

The words kept coming out of his mouth, but made no sense to Grantaire. _He_ was to blame! _He_ was the one who had selfishly gotten in the way, instead of cheering for his boyfriend! _He_ was the one who had fucked it all up!

"I understand why you don't want to have anything to do with me anymore. I'm sorry it had to come to..." Enjolras gestured vaguely around him. "This, but it was the only way I could get you to hear my apology face to face! I've been awful to you and it's your right to hate me for―"

"You think I hate you?" Grantaire cut off, gaping at the word.

Enjolras' lips hung still. Whatever he had been about to say, Grantaire had thrown him off. The accused watch him struggling for words and swallowed thickly.

"You think I lied and ran away because I hate you?" Grantaire asked again, spitting out his words more harshly than he meant.

The anger and panic that boiled in his stomach merged with his exhaustion. Weeks, months of pretending, of apathy, of anger, of guilt and drained strengths pushed into him. He couldn't do this. He'd had enough. His headache throbbed against his skull, threatening to burst.

"I―Yes! Why else―"

"I was giving you a way out!"

The shout took them both by surprise. Once again, Grantaire had not meant to be this loud, nor this aggressive, but voicing his pain was all he could manage. He thought it'd be relieving, at least. It was not.

"A way out of what?" Enjolras asked, his tone rising to match Grantaire's.

His confused and tense features struck Grantaire hard. Sometimes it seemed it was all they had ever done, arguing in that living room. These walls held more shouts that he could remember, ghosts of old arguments haunting him whenever he crossed the threshold. He was tired of making Enjolras shout, he was tired of all the unhappiness he inevitably cast around him.

"Out of us! That's what you wanted!" he bellowed, his dry throat letting out a hoarse sound. "That's what you deserved, something better! You said so yourself, you said you didn't even know what you were doing with me! So I thought―I knew―"

His heaving chest blocked the rest of his words. He could almost feel acid rolling up his throat.

"H―How could you think for a single second that was what I wanted?"

"I put you under that car! I was selfish, I yelled, I threw you out, basically wished for you to die and you were hit by a car! I did this! I wasn't the one driving but I might as well have been!"

He could still see Enjolras' blood soaked clothes when he closed his eyes, sometimes, all that red spilt by his fault. Something tickled his cheek and he realised tears were streaming down his face. They felt heavy as Grantaire wiped them angrily, half expecting his hand to be covered in blood rather than salt water. Enjolras' expression was unreadable.

"When you woke up and didn't remember anything, I thought―You didn't know me! You had erased me completely! And it was perfect because―"

The choice of words bruised his lips. Nothing had been perfect for a long while now. Removing himself from Enjolras' life had been a controlled and surgical endeavour at first, almost too easy. Then the scars had opened and blood poured out, leaving him empty and weakened. Grantaire had been stuck in a web of his own making, a thread around his neck and another tightly spun around his heart.

"I was giving you a way out. But you kept getting closer and closer, and I missed―I knew the second you'd remember you wouldn't―I _had_ to push you away! Look at what I've done to you! You're better off without me anyway, and you know it! I was weighing on you!"

"Grantaire, it wasn't your decision to make!"

"YOU ABANDONED ME!" Grantaire exploded.

His lips burnt of the poison he had fostered for months. The venom of his guilt felt raw on his tongue, after having killed him a thousand times over, day after day. No matter how much he tried, Grantaire couldn't stop, purging himself of it all.

"You left me alone to deal with this shit! I didn't know what to do! You were gone and it was my fault! I knew you didn't love me and―"

"BUT I _DID_!" Enjolras yelled all of a sudden, making Grantaire choke on his sobs."Even that night! Even when I left! I did love you! I _do_!"

Grantaire took a step back, his rib cage crushed by spasms. His back met the door behind him, providing much needed support to his shaky legs. Everything inside him was shutting down, abandoning a sinking ship. Only his migraine persisted in its loyal torment. The living room went silent except for the ugly rumble of his sobs.

"I love you..." a soft, wavering whisper said.

Hesitant hands approached him, hovering over his shoulder, testing if Grantaire would reject them. He wouldn't. He had neither the strength nor the willpower to do so. His constant fighting had left him shattered. Cautiously, Enjolras wrapped a loose embrace around him. Grantaire fell into his arms like a rag doll, in complete surrender. His fist balled around Enjolras' clothes, desperate to hold him back. _Don't go. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me._

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" he sobbed against Enjolras' shoulder, feeling heat radiating from his skin.

Fingers threaded in his hair, holding him close. Grantaire couldn't help but sob harder at the reassuring touches, finding solace in them.

"I'm sorry I left you all alone for so long," Enjolras whispered against his hair. "I'm sorry for letting you dealing with all that, it wasn't fair, it was―"

"It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Grantaire was reduced to a weak wheezing sound, his voice cracking at every word. Around him, Enjolras' touch became more insistent, eager to prove their affection, to tame the wild jolts lifting Grantaire's back.

"No, no it isn't," Enjolras argued softly. "I should have been there. I should have shown them all how much I love you. I cared too much about that stupid bet and that stupid interview and you were―I should have known it didn't sit well with you. I should have taken better care of you."

In spite of the tight hold, Grantaire's legs were void under him, bringing him to his knees. Enjolras followed him downwards, never loosening his embrace for a single second in spite of the deadweight of Grantaire's body.

"I've got you," he kept purring slowly. "I've got you."

Feeling faint, Grantaire settled his head against Enjolras' warm skin, hoping it would keep him conscious. The familiar scent filled his lungs, soothing him to his core.

He started at a foreign pair of hands entering his field of vision. A second later, a blanket was wrapped around his shoulder, complementing the warmth of the body pressed against his. Raising his eyes, Grantaire saw Eponine looming over him, watching him with a concerned expression. Still bitter about her trick and profoundly embarrassed, he buried his head in the crook of Enjolras' neck to avoid her gaze.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked, though he didn't know who she was talking to.

Enjolras nodded slowly and cleared his throat, his fingers still petting Grantaire's hair.

They stayed on the floor for what felt like ages. Grantaire's legs wouldn't have carried him anywhere, had he tried to get up. The lack of real food and energy had finally taken their toll on him. His face was the only part of him that didn't feel numb. It ached from the tears and burnt under the salt they left behind. Though Grantaire could tell Enjolras was crying too, the man was a paragon of calm against him, his chest lifting and sinking peacefully.

Eponine brought them a glass of orange juice. Perhaps Enjolras had asked for it, Grantaire couldn't remember. Between the fog muddling his thoughts and the warm haze of the embrace, things had started to elude him.

"Not thirsty," he wheezed when Enjolras asked him to take a sip.

His dry throat gave the lie away. Accepting anything from Eponine felt like giving in, but the pleading look on Enjolras' face cut his sullen resolve short. He choked on his first gulp, his throat refusing to open. What was left of his dignity dribbled down his chin, but Enjolras didn't seem to care.

"It's fine, it's okay," he whispered, dabbing the liquid off Grantaire's lips and chin with his sleeve. "Breathe with me, okay?"

Their fingers intertwined, Enjolras squeezed their hands, prompting Grantaire to inhale, only to exhale when the pressure loosened around his palm. The pattern went on and on, Enjolras' hand imposing a calm rhythm to his laboured breathing.

"You remembered that," Grantaire said weakly.

It was a trick Enjolras used often, on days his wreck of a boyfriend couldn't even slump himself out of bed. Of all things, he had not expected such a trivial detail to resurfaced.

"I remembered."

The orange juice worked miracles. Small ones, but miracles nonetheless. His deprived body craved sugar, or any kind of nutrient, really. Grantaire's headache weakened somewhat after the first real sips. It wasn't as efficient as painkillers, but it would do until he got his hand on something stronger. For the time being, his hands were still very much clasping Enjolras'.

"What is it?" he asked as he caught the other staring into the void.

"Maybe we should call the others," Enjolras rasped. "Tell them everything."

The precarious calm Grantaire had barely settled in collapsed.

"No!" he argued his voice hoarse from the shouting. "No, please!"

"They deserve that much," Enjolras said, his hands massaging Grantaire's tense shoulders. "It'll be worse if we keep delaying that conversation over and over."

"They'll hate me."

He was like a scared child, his voice high and weak. All he wanted was the blissful nothingness of slumber, a void he could lose himself in.

"No one is going to hate you," Enjolras assured. "No more secrets, okay? To anyone."

 

* * *

 

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta didn't take long to appear. Grantaire soon realised they had been in the Palace all along, confined in their bedroom, listening to his every word in spite of themselves. He knew he should have been annoyed about that, about the lack of privacy offered by theose thin walls, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything. His tears had drained everything out of him, except maybe for the grudge he held against Eponine and her traitorous ways. But even that was more of a residual resentment, a dying spark maintained alive by the pain throbbing in his hands from all the pounding and knocking.

No one in the assembly gave him a nasty look. If anything, they looked at him with compassion as Enjolras guided him to the couch, sitting by his side. Musichetta held his hand, warming the clammy thing between her fingers while Bossuet rubbed his shoulder and his back. They didn't hate him. The realisation took a while to sink in.

They all trickled in little by little, sitting on the floor or on chairs they had pulled next to the couch. Feuilly and Bahorel seemed lost as to why they had been called here, while Courfeyrac and Combeferre seemed perfectly aware and expectant. Jehan kissed his temple when he arrived, whispering something along the lines of "Out of the woods, old soul". Old soul. Yes, that pretty much summed up his lethargic state. Slumped on the couch from the lack of energy, he held Enjolras' hand loosely, to keep a link between them.

Marius and Cosette were the last ones to settle. All the heads turned towards them. Grantaire squeezed Enjolras' hand tighter.

Enjolras did most of the talking. He had always been good at that. The only participation Grantaire gave were a few nods to agree with what was being said and answer the few questions Enjolras needed to complete the story. Being the centre of attention didn't suit him, but he suffered through it nonetheless. Ripping the bandaid in one swift yank was better than repeating the story over and over to different people, he reckoned. He watched anxiously as his misdeeds unfolded in Enjolras' narrative, but there was not a hint of aggression painted on his friends' faces. They just listened, nodding accordingly, shifting their eyes to Grantaire from time to time, a sad smile from Cosette here, a nice glance from Courfeyrac there.

His fatigue blurred most of the recounting. His droopy eyes raked the audience when all of their attention was drawn to Enjolras. The sight of Feuilly reaching for Bahorel's hand reminded him of his own. Grantaire moved his fingers, afraid Enjolras had let go of him. He had not. There was an ineffable comfort there, knowing that someone had him, held him tight. Grantaire fondled a bit more against him.

"You should rest," Joly's voice said.

Grantaire started. He must had dozed off for a second, for all eyes were now on him, rather than on the storyteller. He looked at Joly's hand on his shoulder, then at his kind smile.

"They're right," Enjolras agreed, his thumb brushing Grantaire's knuckles tentatively. "You deserve some rest."

One last squeeze, and the link of their fingers was broken. Grantaire had not processed the loss that Musichetta had already wound her arm around his, getting him up. There was a quiet waves of goodbyes and "goodnights" whispered his way. As Musichetta and Joly escorted him to his bedroom, Grantaire tried to steal one last glance at Enjolras. He caught a glimpse of blonde hair, of lips he knew by heart yet forgotten the taste of. He recognised Feuilly next to him before they were both out of sight.

Chetta and Joly helped him out of his clothes. If Musichetta had any comments, she kept them to herself while she tucked him in properly. His bedroom was in the exact state he had left it in, a little more than a week ago.

"Do you want some tea? Anything to help you sleep?" Joly asked.

"Something to eat?" Chetta suggested.

God, what would happen if those two got married? What even happened when two mom friends tied the knot? Grantaire had an answer on the tip of his tongue, something akin to "Part time doctor, part time valium dealer", but his flashes of wit never made it out. He shook his head instead, trying to condense as much gratefulness as he could in his eyes. His forehead was kissed twice, once by each of his helpers, before Joly and Musichetta left the room, bidding him good night. Through the window, the sky was still bright and blue, barely hidden by the closed blinds. It couldn't be more than nine in the evening. Still taking in what had just happened, Grantaire lay awake.

The door creaked, letting a thin ray of light reflect on the wall before closing softly. Grantaire turned around eagerly, expecting Enjolras to stand close. His visitor earned a groan as he turned the other way, pulling the covers over him. He could almost hear Eponine rolling her eyes.

"Good night to you too, sunshine," she grumbled.

Silence reigned in the bedroom, Grantaire's gaze fixed on the wall, his back to her. His breathing felt heavy against the blanket.

"It was my idea to lock you in a room together," she said. "Not his."

"No shit."

A tinge of grudge was still burning in him. It was a very small flame, but still enough for him to hassle Eponine over.

"I did what I had to do. I know you. You would never have stayed in a room with him unless you had no other choice. You would have kept running and destroying yourself along the way. Have you looked at yourself, lately? How much that affected you? If that's how you look on the outside, who knows what's happening in there!"

Grantaire kept his sullen position, facing the wall rather than her, not yet ready to let go.

"The good thing and the right thing are not always the same, R. I did the right thing. Who knows what you would have done, otherwise? You scared us all. Don't think that your actions don't affect us, because they do. All the awful things you say about yourself... You do know we care about you, don't you? It's not just Enjolras, it's all of us."

"When the fuck did you become so wise?" Grantaire grunted, parting the covers as a sign for her to get in bed. "I thought our friendship was based on mutual mediocrity."

No matter how tightly he held to his grudge, Grantaire had to admit she had a point. After all, he too had thought he was doing the right thing. For a fleeting moment, he pictured a different story in his head, a world in which he would have told the truth from the get go, how different things could have been. He swatted the thought away. It was too late for that. Eponine crawled in bed, not daring to wrap her arm around him yet.

"Bordel, you stink! You probably left that stench all over my couch!" she teased, though Grantaire guessed she wasn't exaggerating much.

"I can still kick you out of my fucking bed, Judas," Grantaire retaliated feebly.

He heard her snicker and was surprised at his own smile. Perhaps he didn't have the strength to stay mad anymore. Perhaps he would pour water in her cereals next morning, just for some petty vengeance he felt entitled to.

"Where is he?" Grantaire heard himself say.

"Enjolras? In the living room. They're all talking about his memories and the stuff that went back to him. Not especially about you two, just... things. I've heard those stories a thousand times, anyway. I don't need to hear about the time Bahorel wore a neon boxer over his jeans when he was still hungover and covered it up as superhero LARP."

They both laughed, Eponine covering Grantaire's weaker chuckle.

"Do you think he's really forgiven me?"

An arm finally tightened around his chest.

"How about you forgive yourself, for a start, eh?"

Grantaire had nothing to answer to that so they listened to the others' laughs echoing through the walls. Revelling in Eponine's warmth, Grantaire finally closed his eyes. He was fast asleep when his best friend closed the door behind her, leaving him in the care of familiar sheets and the embrace of a comfortable bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **French Trivia:**  
>  **"Hep 'Ponine" :** "Hep" is a common thing said to call people in the street in a "Hey, you, right there!" way. Anyway, YET ANOTHER PUN!  
>  **"Bordel" :** Damn. See, French essentials  
>   
>  So! Here you have it, all the answers! It was... painful to write. The dialogue kept getting into my head for month! It feels great to finally get it out. I think Grantaire's POV was essential to know how /he/ was feeling the whole time. We only get glimpses behind the veil of Enjolras' subjective perception, but having Grantaire's thoughts and fears first hand is something else! He needed to explode at some point, because the guilt and lonesomeness were getting unbearable. He blames himself more than anyone else, even when he says that Enjolras abandoned him, it's more a cry of the heart coming from the solitude than a real dumping of responsibility on Enjolras himself. The guy is going through a rough patch... It's my fault, I know.  
>   
> Of course the title comes from Florence and the Machine's "No Light No Light". I think it fitted well because it starts slowly and then all hell breaks loose, a bit like in this chapter. And the lyrics were just... on point! Especially "A revelation in the light of day / You can't choose what stays and what fades away" because that's what Grantaire tried to do, to erase himself from Enjolras' life, but Enjolras didn't let that happen so easily.  
>   
> As for the other fics! I you want I have two babies for you!  
> [ **Prometheus Burning:**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7055893) Enjoltaire, Canon Era, Smut  
>  _"June 1st. The news of Lamarque's passing is spreading across France like wildfire. All of les Amis de l'ABC know what it means, they've all heard the news, and are already preparing for the rebellion. All except one. Standing at the crossroad between Death and Liberty, Enjolras and Grantaire have to decide what to do with the time separating them from the imminent storm._  
>   
> [ **The Golden Bought:**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7136120) Enjoltaire, Canon Era, Angst&Fluff  
>  _June 5th 1833. Grantaire, survivor of the June Rebellion, attempts to drown himself in his glass to forget the fateful anniversary of the barricade. It has been a long year of apathy, guilt and drunkenness. As he passes out in an alley, he's stirred out of his drunken slumber by none other than Apollo himself. Moved by his sorrow, the god grants him a favour: Grantaire will retrieve Enjolras' soul from the hands of Hades, if he can survive the journey. Thus begins Grantaire's descent into the Realm of the Dead._  
>   
>  I'm sorry those end note sections keep getting longer and longer! Thank you if you take the time to read them! And thank you if you take the time leave a comment! It makes it all worth it and rewards a writer in the best way possible! We feed of your feedback so never hesistate! As ever, you can find me at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) on tumblr, for more Enjoltaire and Les Misérables in general! Thank you so much for your time and see ya next chapter!


	19. Make You Feel my Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we are, I'm sorry it took this long, but here is 9k for you! Yes Citizens, 9 full kays! It was quite a journey and we're almost at the end of it! The very last chapter is written so in theory it should take less time o/ (The reason why it took so long is because my file never sent to my beta the first time because I'm DISASTER of a human being)
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:** I am levelling up the ratings once again from M to E! So as ever, if you don't feel comfortable with this kind of stuff, I completely understand and feel free to skip the passages that make you uncomfortable! For those who are interested, it's my reward for following this huge fic for almost a year!  
>  Have fun with it!
> 
> Betaed by: [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

It was a strange thing, to wake up and to be at one with himself. Every morning, Enjolras used to open his eyes and expect to see the walls of his childhood bedroom, back at his parents' home. There used to be an uncertainty, a moment of panic, ever so short, at the sight of the foreign walls surrounding him. Not anymore.

Enjolras knew exactly where he was the moment he opened his eyes. He had spent enough nights sleeping at the Palace to recognise the ceiling. Memories of movie nights popped in his mind, of long summer afternoons, of kisses stolen and given back in the corridors, away from prying eyes. The recollections were clear, effortless.

Getting out of bed, on the other hand, required more effort than Enjolras was able to muster. It took a sleepy roll for him to realise that he wasn't exactly lying on a bed, however. Half of his body dangled out in the open, ready to bring the rest of him down in its fall. A jolt of panic shook him, bursting his drowsy bubble. Muffled giggles rang to his ears.

"Are you okay?" someone asked.

Enjolras squinted towards the voice, his head still caught behind the veil of slumber. Something black and vaguely rectangular-shaped danced in his field of vision, though he couldn't quite make out what it was. When his eyes finally adjusted, the frame of Joly's glasses sharpened. Enjolras noticed the warm smile hanging on his friend's lips, and the even warmer cup of coffee he was holding out to him. The comforting smell finished to bring him back to Earth, after an ill-controlled landing.

"Slept well?" Joly asked, his voice already fluty despite the ungodly hour.

Limply rubbing his eyes from one hand, Enjolras accepted the coffee from the other. The first sip tasted like a liquid miracle, a ray of sunshine clearing out his clouded mind.

"Well enough," he yawned, looking back at the blanket he had rumpled from a night of twisting and turning on the couch. It had been far from the comfort of a real bed, but Enjolras couldn't have possibly slipped into Grantaire's. It felt too soon, as though overstepping the brittle peace they had managed to weave with fragile threads. "Thank for letting me sleep here."

"Don't mention it," Bossuet's voice rose from across the living room.

Enjolras tilted his head, looking past Joly towards the kitchen area. Bossuet and Musichetta were already sat around the kitchen island, their heads half-hidden behind an obscene amount of breakfast foods. The smell of coffee, tea and sugar was hanging in the air, rousing Enjolras' appetite. His stomach stirred with a growl, a painful reminder that he has skipped dinner. After everybody had decided to call it a night, Combeferre had said something about having dinner back at their flat, but Enjolras had declined, refusing to leave. Part of him feared that if he left, Grantaire would vanish into the night again. Not everything had been said, they still had things to talk about, to settle. Enjolras would have come back to the Palace first thing in the morning anyway, so why even bother leaving in the first place?

"You're already up?" he asked Bossuet as he followed Joly to the breakfast table.

Bossuet smiled, munching his cereals loudly.

"In an unfortunate turn of events, it appears that I am!" he sighed, straightening against the back of his chair to stretch his spine. "Feuilly asked me to help him with some stuff and that godless heathen rises with the sun."

"I rise with the sun too," Joly pouted in protest, taking the seat opposite from Musichetta.

"Then there's a heathen living under my very roof! Chetta, call the Inquisition!" Bossuet slammed a hand on his heart, his face twisted by shock and outrage under the sound of Joly's chuckles.

"Just a heathen? Not a godless heathen?" Musichetta quipped from behind her mug, her reading glasses covered in mist. Enjolras saw her smiling from the corner of her eyes.

"You're a goddess to us all, mon amour," Bossuet purred, giving Chetta a quick kiss on her hand. "Joly and I are devoted worshippers."

Enjolras took a seat, revelling in the little things he knew, insignificant to the eyes of others, but unbelievably precious to him. He knew Bossuet was a late sleeper, rarely up before ten, even though he had countless alarms set up and ready to go off. He knew Joly enjoyed honey rather than sugar in his oatmeal. He knew Musichetta put strawberry green tea above all else first thing in the morning. Enjolras felt like home at long last. A mosaic of random, futile trivia stretched before him. It was the most beautiful picture he had ever seen.

He helped himself to some bread and jam, enjoying the cheerful atmosphere and the light-hearted chat that livened up the table. There were talks of gardens, of fruits soon to be ripe, of plants Joly needed to harvest, of rehearsals that could finally take place, now that Grantaire was back. The kitchen had held so many arguments recently that filling the room with laughter was almost strange, out of place. Just above Musichetta's shoulder, he could see the spot he had been sitting on, on the night of July 14th. His last kiss felt years away now, like a feverish dream he wasn't sure had really happened. He could still see Grantaire's face when he had pulled away, transfixed between horror and disbelief. Enjolras had thought him drunk on liquor that night, that alcohol had draw their lips together and apart. Little had he known Grantaire had been drunk on longing and remorse.

"Enj'?"

Bossuet's voice cut his reverie short. The talk of gardens and jam-making had hushed, leaving three pairs of eyes quietly staring at him. Caught off guard, Enjolras' gaze flicked between the three of them.

"Sorry, what? I wasn't listening."

Bossuet looked awfully serious, an expression all the more unnerving that is was rare to see it on his cheerful face.

"I was saying, about Grantaire―"

Oh. To be fair, Enjolras had expected the topic to come up at some point. Perhaps not this early, but he was bound to bump into the elephant in the room sooner or later.

"I know it's too early to say and we're all still processing this," Bossuet continued, abandoning his Coco Pops to mush in his bowl, "but do you know what you guys are now, to each other? More or less?"

Enjolras opened his mouth, looking for an answer. Truth was, he didn't know. He might have held Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire altogether, but it was hard to put a name on something this complicated. Boyfriends? Exes? His throat grew tight at the thought. "That's my ex, Grantaire," sounded awfully off. He could hardly picture it with his own voice.

"I―I don't know. I guess we'll figure it out."

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta nodded together as one, glancing at each other. Enjolras could almost see the thoughts jumping from one head to the others, a shared consciousness between three different entities. They were impressive, that way. Having those three as the self-designated Baywatch team of his relationship felt oddly reassuring.

"Whatever you two decide just... just try not to cut the ties completely, alright?" Bossuet advised earnestly.

Removing Grantaire from his life had never been part of Enjolras' intentions anyway, in spite of Grantaire's best efforts in that direction. But knowing they had considered that possibility weighed on his stomach. After all, what if Grantaire decided that they were better off apart?

"Sure, I mean... That's not what I want. Why? Do you think he would want to?"

"No," Musichetta took over, putting her mug down. "What we mean is that he tried that method and it didn't work. He may think you're better off without him, but he sure isn't. He needs all of us, you included, especially now."

"He gets by with a little help from his friends," Joly smiled, giving Enjolras a small nudge from his elbow.

Grantaire's friend. Enjolras reflected on that for a second. Though it wasn't as weird as "Grantaire's ex", it still didn't have the ring to it. He had already made up his mind about what he wanted, the moment Grantaire had collapsed in his arms. Save the crying and the pain tearing his chest apart, holding him close had felt right. But whatever his wishes, the ball was in Grantaire's court. Whatever he decided, Enjolras would abide by it.

"If it's worth anything," Chetta purred with a cheeky grin, "I do remember him smiling more often, last winter. I wonder why that was."

"True," Bossuet agreed. "Constantly checking his phone and beaming like an idiot."

Enjolras hid behind his mug, unable to differentiate the heat of the china from that of his face. Oddly enough, he had forgotten that the main result of people knowing about their relationship was that people _knew_ about their relationship. In spite of his fluster, he couldn't help but to feel a tinge of contentment. He would endure Courfeyrac's gentle teasing with great pleasure, if he could call Grantaire his boyfriend in compensation.

"What did you think he was looking at?" he asked Bossuet, intrigued.

If Courfeyrac had caught him grinning at a screen too often, Enjolras was sure he would have wormed the truth out of him. Bossuet shrugged.

"I don't know. Memes? I mean he _is_ Grantaire."

A collective chuckle swept around the kitchen island, all of them muffling their laughs into their mugs.

"How are you, though?" Joly asked, stretching his arm to rub Enjolras' back.

It wasn't his Joly voice, it was his Joly MD voice. Enjolras had learnt to recognise it through little seemingly innocent questions of the like. Doctor Joly always kept an eye open. Enjolras could barely imagine the amount of fussing involved whenever Bossuet banged his head against a lintel.

"I'm okay, still processing, I guess. A bit tired."

"You should stop by the hospital for a checkup. Just to see if everything's definitely alright."

"I will," he promised. "Tomorrow."

Grantaire was his only concern for the day. Enjolras thought it was only fair, for all the times Grantaire had taken the back seat on the list of his priorities. One day wouldn't make amends, but he was determined to make it count nonetheless. Visibly pleased by the promise, Joly got up and dropped a kiss on top of Enjolras' head on his way to the sink.

"Speaking of the hospital, I'm off to save some lives, ladies and gentlemen! Yours, to begin with!"

He took a browning banana from the fruit basket and held it in front of Bossuet's face, giving his boyfriend a big yellow speckled smile.

"Those sugar-loaded nightmares you smuggled under my roof have no nutritional value whatsoever."

"I beg to disagree," Bossuet argued, holding his bowl of cereal protectively against his chest. "I'm not a doctor but in _my_ book 'sugar' _is_ a nutrient. And it says vitamin B on the packet!"

"Eat that banana before I unleash some vitamin J on your ass. It's full of potassium."

Across the table, Enjolras and Musichetta shared an amused look, biting their cheeks not to laugh.

"But what about my daily dose of Jolium?" Bossuet grinned, pursing his lips together with a wet sound.

Joly rolled his eyes and gave Bossuet the kiss he was due. Mesmerised, Enjolras observed their casual waltz, Joly going from Bossuet to Musichetta, fingers still lingering on one's shoulder while his lips were already on the other's. It was fascinating to watch. These three satellite were in perfect balance, always linked by touch or words like extensions of themselves.

"I don't know how you guys do it," Enjolras admitted with a sigh. "You have twice the work and you still manage to be infuriatingly great together!"

"You and Grantaire lacked a little thing called communication," Musichetta said, busy combing Joly's hair with her fingers. "You two kept bottling stuff up. You were like a shaken bottle of coke ready to explode under the pressure."

"We use the 'Three Cs' rule," Bossuet added. "Communication, care and compromise. It makes everything a lot easier."

Enjolras nodded slowly, drinking in their advice. Out of the three Cs, he felt he could only tick the "care" box so far. He had assumed too much, communication wise. Silence, coming from Grantaire, didn't mean there was nothing to say, on the contrary. His lack of words was more telling than his usual snark, louder even. Enjolras just wished he hadn't learnt that the hard way. As for compromise, he was hardly proficient in that area.

The Palace emptied little by little, everybody going about their business, all but Enjolras, whose business was still sleeping soundly, or so he hoped. Desperate to give himself something to do, he helped Musichetta with the washing up and went to take a shower. Combeferre, bless his thoughtful soul, had dropped fresh clothes for him earlier in the morning. His old ones had been abandoned somewhere by the couch. Taking them off had been like shedding an uncomfortable, outgrown skin for something new and smoother.

Walking past Grantaire's bedroom in the corridor, Enjolras stopped abruptly. Was he still sleeping? Should he come in? What was the policy here? He pictured Grantaire's body heavy with sleep, surrounded by walls Enjolras knew and remembered well, though he had not stepped foot in that room in months. He could slither in silently and crown Grantaire's hair with kisses, provide some more comfort and warmth. The temptation almost raised his hand to the handle. No. It was too early for that.

"Enjolras," Musichetta called from the hallway.

He took one last indecisive glance at the door before turning on his heels.

"Yeah?"

She was slipping on her jacket, ready to head down the stairs, her earrings clinking in rhythm with her keys.

"Here, take this."

Enjolras found himself holding clean bed sheets for reasons that eluded him.

"When he wakes up, tell him to take a shower," she said softly, though Enjolras understood it wasn't a suggestion. Perhaps she was keeping her voice low as not to wake Grantaire up, but her tone met business. "He always feels better afterwards. While he's in there, change his sheets, alright? A clean bed makes for a good rest, and I doubt he's had either in a while. Also make sure he eats something, _food_ , preferably, none of that processed crap he loves so much."

His thumbs stroked the fabric nervously, trying not to think about the part he had played in Grantaire's lack of repose. Thankfully, Musichetta was still there to take his mind off it.

"Will you stay for dinner?" she asked, her voice suddenly more chirpy

"I don't know yet, why?"

"I thought we could do something to celebrate your wonderfully functionable brain and the return of the prodigal son, with all the gang Does pizza sound good?"

Her smile was so bright and infectious that Enjolras couldn't help but return it. It was one of Musichetta's many gifts.

"Pizza sounds great," he nodded.

Chetta bent slightly and cradled Enjolras' jaw in her hands, pressing a kiss on his cheek. Her doting gaze didn't leave him as she tried to erase the dark trail of her lipstick.

"What?"

"Nothing," she chuckled. "It's good to see you! Oh, and I have something for you."

She took a piece of fabric out of a drawer, taking great care not to unfold what Enjolras thought to be a pillow case. Looking closely, he recognised the green shade that had lulled him to sleep for months.

"You kept it?" he gasped, holding Grantaire's t-shirt like some precious artefact worth a fortune.

"I picked it up from the trash after you left, the other day," Musichetta explained with a warm smile. "It would have been a shame to throw it away since you seemed so attached to it. I thought, maybe, you'd want to have it back, now that you and Grantaire are...,"

If she wanted to say "together", she didn't venture to say it out loud, as though not to foster any hopes. She wouldn't have had the time to, anyway, because Enjolras pulled her to him, hugging her close. Perhaps she didn't know how much this little token meant to him, but he would gladly show her the extent of his gratitude.

"Thank you so much," he whispered in her ear.

"You boys be good, eh?"

Her cheer was still hanging in the air when she walked out the door.

The wait for Grantaire to get up was endless. No matter how hard Enjolras tried to distract himself, he kept jumping at the slightest crack, at the faintest sound. What would happen if Grantaire decided they were better apart? Would they go back to being friends, telling people the tragic epic story they had underwent, concluding the narrative by "we're friends now, so it's all cool, I guess"? Would it ever be? If there was a line couples crossed, an "all or nothing" line, had they crossed it already? Perhaps there was no mending the bridges they had burnt. Still, Enjolras remembered the way Grantaire had clung to him, how heavy and raw he had felt in his arms. Grantaire did not hate him, a little voice supplied in his head. It wasn't hate that had spun his lies, but doubt, shame and guilt. Perhaps, with those gone...

An hour passed. The wall of photos pinned in the living room didn't hold any secrets from Enjolras anymore. He knew each of the frozen smiles displayed before him, the echoes of their laughter ringing in his mind. There was a photo of Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, surrounded by boxes in a very empty Palace. Feuilly had taken that one, Enjolras remembered. In another, Allan Edgar Poe and the Romantics were playing their first gig. Grantaire's hair was shorter back then. Jehan had been flooded by adrenaline that night, jumping up and down, his timidity vanquished by the thrill of the stage. There was one of Gavroche and Azelma sleeping on the couch after a long movie marathon night. Enjolras knew for a fact Gavroche wanted it destroyed. He couldn't bear with the idea that there was material evidence of him sucking his thumb.

Yet another featured Bahorel and Feuilly busy around a smoking grill, arguing over the cooking process of vegetarian sausages. That night was crystal clear in Enjolras' mind. It was the one year anniversary of Feuilly and Bahorel moving in together. They had organised a barbecue, though April was hardly a decent time for an outdoors meat fest. Enjolras could still feel the tickle of the grass against his neck, when he and Grantaire had sneaked away from the table to kiss, lying on the grass, cloaked by the darkness and the eastern wall of the house. They had looked at the stars, making up ridiculous constellation names. Would it still be the same after all of this? Could they still laugh together, pointing at a random cloud of stars and call it "the Vigilant Cock" for the hell of it? Enjolras sighed. Three hours passed.

It was noon and Grantaire had not budge from his bedroom. Enjolras had never felt so antsy in his life, pacing throughout the living room as though the sound of his steps would stir Grantaire out of bed faster. He flicked through the channels, but there was nothing except stupid game shows and reruns of Plus Belle la Vie. By two in the afternoon, he dialled Courfeyrac's number.

"Cockadoodledoo, my guy! How are things?"

The sound of his voice was a comfort after hours of lonesome wait.

"Quiet," he sighed. "Grantaire's still asleep. It's been... about seventeen hours now. Do you think I should wake him up?"

"You're calling the wrong end of the C squared team if you want some medical advice," Courfeyrac laughed. "He did look like he needed those Zs yesterday, though. Hell, he looked like he needed the whole alphabet!"

He wasn't wrong. The week had been hard on Grantaire. He had looked sick, a wild scruff growing unkempt and uneven on his cheeks and chin. His skin had struck Enjolras by how brittle it seemed. It wasn't a sight Enjolras had been prepared for, when Grantaire had entered the living room. He remembered flinching when bloodshot eyes had recognised him, their acknowledgment quickly giving way to terror. Enjolras had not been prepared for that either.

"Yeah..." he trailed off pensively, letting himself fall on the couch. "What about you? Enjoyed having the flat to yourselves?"

Courfeyrac's snort was enough for Enjolras to picture him grinning at the other end of the line.

"Sure, Enj'," he said wryly. "I ripped off Ferre's clothes with my teeth and we fucked on every single spot available. That's what we do when you're not here. I'm currently lying on my stomach 'cause I won't be sitting for the next year. Shall I continue?"

Enjolras wrinkled his nose with a smile.

"No thanks, I've got a pretty vivid visual already."

"Wait until you see your bedroom. We've redecorated."

The indignant and disgusted exclamation unleashed Courfeyrac's roaring laughter.

"Fresh organic paint aside," Courfeyrac continued, a few giggles stuck in his throat. "We're hitting the theatre with Marius and Cosette later, want to join?"

"I think I'll pass, sorry Courf. Chetta said we could do something tonight, though, so maybe we―"

The door opened, letting a hunched figure in. Enjolras' words vanished at once, caught in the middle of a sentence he'd never finish.

"Gotta go, talk to you later!" he whispered hurriedly at his phone before hanging up.

Grantaire had not noticed him, too busy protecting his eyes from the sudden brightness. It was hard to say if he was in better shape with the mask of sleep still intended on his face. The silence struck Enjolras. They were alone.

"Hey," he called softly. The stillness of the room magnified his voice into a shout.

Barely awake, Grantaire flinched at the sound, his eyes looking for its source. Enjolras expected the same pained expression he had seen on the previous day, or even apprehension. He only read surprise on those tired features, as though Grantaire had not expected to find him there.

"Hey..." he croaked in return.

They both stared on, as though stuck on each other's sight.

"How are you feeling?"

Grantaire blinked, scratching his entanglement of a mane.

"Two stars out of five," he nodded slowly.

It was always better than none. Enjolras cleared his throat, remembering Musichetta's directives. He tried to sound firm, but his voice wouldn't let him.

"Chetta mentioned something about a shower."

"I'm sure she did," Grantaire sighed.

There was resignation in his tone. It wasn't his first rodeo, he knew the drill. Silence weighed between them once more. Enjolras could almost hear the dust floating around him, set alight with the rays of the sun. Since there was nothing to add Grantaire turned around, his steps heavy on the parquet. Enjolras waited for the hail of the shower before stepping into Grantaire's room.

The sour smell of sweat welcomed him. His nose wrinkled, Enjolras strode towards the window and opened it wide. The room was just how he remembered it, meticulously messy, the desk cluttered with the drawings that were not yet pinned on the walls. Nothing had changed, save a few missing pieces artworks that had been removed, leaving blanks in the middle of the fresco of sketches. _He couldn't stand having me staring at him_ , Enjolras understood, staring at the blank space right above the bed. There had been a realistic watercolour of him there, once. He couldn't say he didn't understand, but his own absence sent a pang to his heart.

Enjolras did as asked and changed the sheets, throwing the old one on the floor. His hands were busy flattening the fabric when Grantaire came it. Clearly, he had not expected Enjolras to be there either. They both froze for a second. Enjolras looked away first, his eyes avoiding the towel tied around Grantaire's waist and the droplets rolling down his navel. The exposed body wasn't what had made him stop. It was the unruly scruff covering Grantaire's jaw, leaving his skin clear and smooth. In three years, Enjolras had never seen him look this young.

"You didn't have to do that," Grantaire said as Enjolras walked past him, carrying the dirty sheets in his arms.

"I know. I don't mind."

There was something between them, a veil of timidity that was yet to be lifted. Enjolras didn't know what he was allowed to see, so he averted his eyes and left the other to dress. He unloaded his burden in the washing machine, stuffing the drum until all the dirty linen fitted inside. Unsure of what he was supposed to do next, Enjolras waited awkwardly near Grantaire's door, bracing himself for the talk ahead. From the other side of the wall he could hear shuffling, drawers being opened and closed.

"Bordel de merde," Grantaire grumbled.

Intrigued, Enjolras tilted his head, risking a glance inside. Almost fully dressed, Grantaire was struggling to button his shirt, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. His hands never seemed to get hold of the buttons long enough to do them correctly.

"Let me," Enjolras suggested, stepping into the room.

Grantaire didn't say a word, but his arms moved away, clearing the field for Enjolras to work his magic. His hands were steady and slow, avoiding the warm skin as much as possible. Still, the feeling of proximity was rushing to Enjolras' head. His eyes followed down the dance of his fingers, catching a glimpse of Grantaire beneath the fabric. He tried not to think about the trail of hair disappearing beneath the hem of his trousers, nor about how much he wanted to brush his sides, to hold him close. The caress of the man's breath was tickling his skin, turning his thought into a wild spin. His fingers grew less cautious, knuckles grazing the skin underneath them more often. Enjolras was near the last buttons when Grantaire seized his wrists, driving his hands away. His breathing hitched.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras whispered sheepishly. "I didn't mean to overstep."

A lump gathered in his throat. He shouldn't have. As nothing came from Grantaire, he gathered himself and asked calmly:

"Do you want me to go?"

"No."

His voice was sure, but faint. Enjolras realised Grantaire had not let go of his wrists.

"I don't get it," he whispered.

Enjolras frowned.

"What?"

"Why you'd want to stay after..." Grantaire held back his words, but made himself understood nonetheless. "After everything."

The hold around him was loose enough for Enjolras to slide his hands off Grantaire's, only to clasp them the next second. Their palms were warm against each other, and Enjolras didn't resist the urge to lace their fingers together in a comforting touch. Grantaire, eyes downcast, gave a shy squeeze. There was a flow pumping through them that met at the interlacing of their skins.

"Because we're not done, you and me," Enjolras said softly, believing every word. "There's so much―We've made mistakes― _I_ have made mistakes, terrible ones."

He could gaze in Grantaire's eyes now, as the man he loved tilted his chin up. His irises were no longer ringed with red streaks, or heavy with dark circles on his lids. He looked better, rested. He looked like the Grantaire he knew, to the exception of the smooth skin on his cheek. The mere thought of it roused the temptation to cradle his jaw and feel the glide of his thumb on his chin.

"Maybe we've burnt it all to the ground," Enjolras continued, remembering Cosette's words, just a few days ago, "but that doesn't mean something beautiful won't come out of the ashes."

A small smile hung on the corner of Grantaire's lips, quickly growing into a sly grin.

"What kind of rom com have you been watching?" he chuckled, though Enjolras could tell his words had touched their target by the way Grantaire held his hands tighter.

"Stop laughing!" He nudged the other with his shoulder. "It's something Cosette told me!"

Easy laughs filled the air, the two of them feeling their shoulders relax. It felt too long since Enjolras had seen a genuine smile onto Grantaire's lips.

"My point is," he went on, "I'm here. If you'll have me, I'm here."

The short moment of insouciance was over as Grantaire's smile slipped away, replaced by something much more serious. Enjolras' heart leaped at the sight. _He won't have me_ , he thought. _He's made up his mind._

"You do know that my brain is still going to be shit, right?" Grantaire asked.

It was nowhere near what Enjolras had expected. Taken aback, he found himself at a loss for words. It didn't matter. Grantaire did not stop there:

"Some days I won't be able to get out of bed because the world feels too hard to handle? That I'll need you to tell me every other day that I'm not a burden and that you still care about me? That I'll want to be alone but also won't want to be alone at the same time, and it'll probably drive you crazy because it's so fucking _hard_ to understand, even for me?"

The pressure around Enjolras' hands tightened as the list grew, Grantaire's voice reaching higher and higher, rendered almost breathless. The tone too, changed, turning into anger and frustration. He was right, a relationship was not a panacea, Enjolras had no illusion about that, but that didn't mean he would give up altogether. One of his hand shifted gently to Grantaire's cheek, getting their eyes to meet.

"I know. And I'll do my best to help, but if we're doing this, I'll need you to tell me the things I do wrong. I did plenty wrong without even knowing it last time, and I don't want to add up to what you're already dealing with."

Grantaire started nodding slowly before a sudden epiphany stretched his lips into cheeky smile.

"Wait, so that means that _I_ can tell _you_ you're wrong?" he boasted. "I've never had so much power in my hands! So now I can declare that your stance on goat cheese is completely wrong? That's _amazing_!"

Enjolras was too relieved to huff or roll his eyes. Though he did his best to stay calm, his heart was racing in his chest, prompting him to jump around, pull Grantaire closer, kiss him with all his strength. Perhaps Grantaire's heart was telling him the same, but his stomach spoke louder. A rumbling sound rose loudly between them. The kiss would wait, there were other essentials that still needed to be fulfilled.

"Hungry?" Enjolras teased.

"I could eat, yeah," Grantaire agreed.

Musichetta did say something about food. If Enjolras had skipped dinner, the chances were high that Grantaire had skipped more than that. As expected, "processed crap" was his first choice when they reached the kitchen.

"Musichetta insisted you should eat something good," Enjolras warned playfully.

Grantaire let out a triumphant sound, taking two bowls out of a cupboard.

"Magnificent, cereals it is!"

"No, she meant something good from a nutritional standpoint!"

Cookie Crisps rained into the bowls anyway. Grantaire couldn't have been farther from nutritional if he had drunk palm oil and ate white sugar with a spoon. He threw a challenging look over his shoulder as he poured the milk over the health disaster he was preparing.

"Well shit, I guess it's done now, what shall we do?" he quipped, handing a bowl to Enjolras who took it reluctantly.

"I've already had breakfast. R, it's almost three in the afternoon!"

"What about second breakfast?" Grantaire said brightly in a broken accent that sounded vaguely Scottish, visibly expecting a reaction.

Enjolras blinked, completely lost.

"It's from―You know what? Forget it," he laughed, almost spilling milk on the floor. "All those memories and still clueless about pop culture! We should focus on the _real_ issue here!"

"Other than you eating Cookie Crisps at three?"

"Time is a social construct, Enjolras. Take a walk on the wild side and destroy the establishment one clogged artery at a time!"

They shared an amused glance. Enjolras wasn't an idiot, he knew Grantaire was trying to shoo the awkwardness away by cracking one joke after another. It was his way of dealing with things, always had been. Enjolras was more than willing to indulge him.

"Shouldn't you be working?" Grantaire asked, sitting on the counter.

The sight was far too familiar not to evoke a certain kiss. Sat at the kitchen island, Enjolras dropped his eyes to his bowl.

"I should be, but I texted Myriel that I had some stuff to deal with."

"Nice to know the clergy has finally caught up with technology. Am I dealt with, then?"

His tone was light, but Enjolras could feel a tinge of expectation hidden behind it.

"Hopefully I'm not done dealing with you for a good while," he answered, catching a pleased smile on Grantaire's face.

Once the bowls were abandoned in the sink, a strange, almost wary dance began. They both wandered in the living room, faking to look at this or that, assessing the other's boundaries. Enjolras could feel Grantaire's eyes on his back when he wasn't looking, just as he was sure Grantaire caught the glances he was trying to steal in his direction. _Touche avec les yeux_ , the saying went. Oh, Enjolras could almost touch him, feel him, even a few paces away. He knew how these hands felt on his skin, how those lips fitted on his neck. Each time he looked, Grantaire was standing closer.

By the time the dancers met, Enjolras was standing by the bookcase, his eyes raking through the titles, his mind infinitely more interested by the presence behind his back. Grantaire's warm breath breezed through his hair. Absent-mindedly, Enjolras ran his index along the edge of a book set apart from the others, as though left there waiting to be picked up again.

"Le portrait de Dorian Gray," he read, taking the paperback in his hands to flip the pages.

"Have you read it yet?" Grantaire asked.

His voice came from right above Enjolras' ear. If Grantaire breathed harder, he would feel the slow heaves of his chest against his back.

"Not yet. I guess it must have slipped my mind."

The nonchalance of his own joke took Enjolras by surprise. His hands froze around the book.

"Sorry," he apologised, risking a glance above his shoulder. "Too soon?"

He caught a glimpse of a smirk.

"I never thought you'd be the one to get the ball rolling on the amnesia jokes!" Grantaire laughed.

Carefully, he slid the book from Enjolras' hands, inspecting the worn-out cover.

"I'll get you started with it," he said earnestly. "You'll never read it unless I chew it and feed it to you, you overgrown fledgling."

Enjolras took the hesitant hand Grantaire was offering. The sparks running up his arm weren't of the same nature as those he had felt earlier, in the bedroom. It wasn't a reassuring touch, this time, their hands weren't lifelines. Instead the touch was simple, gratuitous even. Enjolras allowed Grantaire to guide him away from the wide bookcase, disdaining the couch in favour of something more intimate.

Fresh air had chased the smell of sweat out of the room. Enjolras let go off Grantaire to close close the window. A loud thump later, the other had let himself fall onto the bed. When Enjolras turned around, he noticed the empty space left on the covers, inviting him to join. Holding hands was one thing, but the bed?

"Are you sure?" he asked, more nervous than anticipated. "I mean... I don't want you to feel like we have to cuddle or anything, it's totally up to―"

"Enjolras?" Grantaire cut off.

"Yes?"

"We're not in a nunnery. Get on the bed. Unless..." his voice trailed off, suddenly cautious. "Unless you don't want to. Which is fine, I mean, totally fine, you―"

The rushed sentence stopped abruptly at the sight of Enjolras' eagerness. He wanted to, of course he wanted to. He settled by Grantaire's side, his head secure in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. Boyfriend. None of them had said the word, but he couldn't help himself. Perhaps, soon, he could say it out loud. He felt an arm wrapping itself around his waist, and the reading began.

Grantaire's voice was calm and steady, following the rhythm of his breathing. Enjolras felt himself drifting as the pages went by, the words merging and losing their meaning, though the Grantaire's voice kept him awake. It was a nice trance, caught between sleep and consciousness. The body pressed against him was warm and smelt of soap and honey. If he let go just for a second, if he dropped the thread of Grantaire's words, Enjolras knew he would fall asleep, lulled by Grantaire as a whole.

"Enjolras?"

He started ever so slightly at the call.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm listening, I swear," Enjolras whispered.

"No, it's not that. I was wondering... What does it feel like, to remember?"

Enjolras had not seen the question coming. It was such an odd thing to explain! Repositioning himself properly against Grantaire, he took a minute to find the right words.

"It depends," he sighed, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. "Sometimes it's simple, it's just... there, though it wasn't a second ago. And you just tell yourself 'oh yeah sure', because it makes complete sense for it to be there. Sometimes it's more dense, a bit like a wave. You get flooded by sensations and memories, so much that it takes a minute to tell the difference between what happened back then and what's happening now. I can't really explain it. It's the sort of things you can't really put into words, you know?"

Grantaire hummed. His thoughts were louder than his words. Enjolras could almost hear them battling in his skull, never to be set free: _"What about me? How did you remember me?"_.

"You're one of the first thing I remembered," he slipped softly, like a secret.

Against him, Grantaire's body sparked with interest.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Though I didn't remember _you_ I remembered―well―what I _felt_ for you. What I _feel_."

The hand that was still holding the book open put it down, perhaps finding Enjolras' hand more worthy of touch.

"The rest came after," he continued. "And it was messy and complicated at best, and we complicated things even more, but that initial thing, the stuff that I felt... It wasn't complicated. It was..."

Enjolras lifted his head slightly, looking for Grantaire's eyes, only to realise he was already being observed. The tender gaze staring back at him was enough knock the air out of his lungs and brush the words off his lips. His mind went blank. There was no sweeter oblivion than losing himself in those blue eyes. They were so close now Grantaire's breath was tickling his nose. Enjolras breathed him in, his eyelids fluttering, almost closing in anticipation. He felt Grantaire's heartbeat against his lips a fleeting second before they came together.

It wasn't a first kiss by any stretch of imagination, but it had the taste of one. The caresses were airy, just a brush on the other's flesh, another test, another wall collapsing softly between them. Each time they pulled away, they met again more confidently, more daringly. The rediscoveries were endless. Enjolras sighed at the warmth growing in his abdomen, spreading through the rest of him. The shy glide of their tongues emptied his mind and filled his heart.

They broke apart in a silent agreement. As intoxicating as kissing was, Enjolras' neck painfully disapproved of the position. Instead, he passed a leg over Grantaire, straddling his hips. A faint blush bloomed on his cheeks, hopefully hidden by the strands of hair falling over his face. His back leant against the headrest, Grantaire brushed them aside with a satisfied smirk, revealing Enjolras' fluster. Before he managed to say anything, Grantaire was silenced by another kiss.

His bare cheeks felt almost too soft under Enjolras' fingers. He had been used, a few months ago, to the gentle burn of his stumble, to the enticing itch against his skin. In spite of the hammering of his heart, the embrace kept its slow pace. They had all the time in the world now. They had nothing to hide anymore. The thrill of secrecy was replaced by something warmer, more secure. Grantaire's hands stroked his waist, guiding the rest of Enjolras' body closer. A drop of arousal pooled around his navel when their chests touched. Perhaps his shivering breath gave it away, perhaps Grantaire was feeling it too, but his lips drifted away nonetheless.

"Do you want me to stop? Too soon?" Enjolras whispered.

"No."

As to make his wishes clearer, Grantaire's hands slithered from Enjolras' waist down to his hips, taking hold of them gently. His lids were heavy with yearning. Enjolras stared at his lips, dry of kisses for too long, now flushed and swollen, demanding even. He took them once more, showering them with the praise they had lacked. The embrace was deeper this time, more feverish. They were two lovesick souls seeking a cure in each other. Months of longing flooded from the edge of their mouths, their sighs turned into silent confessions. _Feel how much I've missed you. Feel how much I want you._

Soon, the fingers toying with the hem of his shirt, never going further, became too much for Enjolras to bear. He needed Grantaire's hands on him, all over him. He didn't know if Grantaire was staying clear of his skin out of respect or wicked pleasure, but he couldn't stand the absence anymore. Enjolras gave an imperious roll of hips, feeding the heat flaring between his thighs threatening to set him ablaze. Benevolent, Grantaire freed him from his shirt, his hands stroking Enjolras' back. The sharp bite of the fresh air was soothing, but fuelled a deeper craving. The thought of their heated bodies entwined at last sent Enjolras on edge. His hands flew to Grantaire's shirt, eager to take it, rip it, flung it off him.

Something felt off, the moment his fingers met the fabric. Grantaire's body had come to a halt, his limbs frozen. Enjolras' frenzy crashed, blocking his throat. He followed the blank stare, his eyes falling on his own upper arm, and the black compression sleeve wrapped around it. Grantaire's lips thinned, guilt creeping back onto his face.

"Grantaire..."

"I did this."

His voice was breathless from the kissing and pained from the sight. He averted his eyes.

"You didn't. Grantaire, look at me."

Enjolras pressed a hand against his cheek, drawing Grantaire's reluctant gaze to him. God, how he loved him, how he wanted all the hurt banished from his face and his life.

"It's just skin," Enjolras soothed, his thumb drawing the edge of his boyfriend's cheekbone. "It doesn't hurt."

Grantaire had seen them before, the red streaks running down his upper arm, the landmark where his body had met a windshield, then shards of glass, then the road. Enjolras had others, more superficial, on his side. Carefully, he rolled the sleeve on itself, revealing the marks little by little. They had pinked, new skin replacing the wounds, healing itself. When it came off, Enjolras took Grantaire's hand and guided one of his fingers along a fleshy bolt. It was a part of him Grantaire had never touched before. It was brand new. The finger's tense brush grew more relaxed, along with its owner's shoulders.

He thought Grantaire was bending toward him to take a better look, but the touch of his fingers was replaced by that of his lips.

"I'm sorry I didn't stay with you at the hospital," Grantaire said, his voice trembling slightly. "I should have been with you."

"You're with me now," Enjolras whispered.

A fervent stream of kisses rolled along his upper arm, Grantaire's brow creasing under the weight of his emotions. Enjolras' heart swelled. His hand threaded its way into dark curls, still wet from his shower, holding him close. For a while, all there was was the sound of Grantaire's praise against him, his mouth closing old wounds. When the worship was over, they returned to each other, another shirt finding its way to the floor.

The gentle pause didn't last long. It only took one brush of their bodies for them to spark. Almost subconsciously, Enjolras' hips kept rocking against Grantaire's, looking for a delightful friction. His trousers felt restricting, stifling against his legs. From the unabashed grinding, he could tell the feeling was mutual. Expertly, Grantaire slipped his knee between Enjolras' thighs. Overwhelmed, Enjolras broke into a choked moan.

" _Fuck_ , I've missed you," he managed between two heavy sighs.

"I can feel that," Grantaire purred in his ear, languidly pulling the waist he was holding.

Taking that as a challenge, Enjolras' hand wandered between his boyfriend's thighs. The bulge of his cock was warm in his palm, already painfully hard against the constraining jeans. Everything in the sly look he cast Grantaire said: _"And can you feel that?"_. The effect of his retaliation unfolded instantly. The kisses got rougher, wilder, Grantaire nipping at his flesh, groaning softly into his mouth. Enjolras felt a warm wave washing over him, firing his senses. He wanted more than this. He needed more than this.

Twin thoughts seemed to guide Grantaire's hands. Made clumsy with haste, his fingers yanked Enjolras' belt out of the way. Soon, the button and fly of his pants came undone, and the tantalising pressure of Grantaire's hand made Enjolras buck his hips. His lids fluttered and his lips parted in a moan of relief. _Yes, just like that_ , he wanted to say, but the words were too far gone. The pace was gentle, clashing with the love bites that were being planted on his neck. Both soft and wild, at the intersection of both, there was Grantaire.

Enjolras didn't take long before returning the ministrations. His strokes followed Grantaire's rhythm, though made somewhat irregular by the jolts of pleasure running through him. He felt his lover's body melt to the touch, his hips eager, his lips hungry. There was nothing more arousing than to hear Grantaire's grunts turn into genuine moans. None of them held back anymore. In a bold, lust-driven move, Enjolras took them both in hand, looking at their flushed, desiring cocks.

"I want you," Grantaire said, his voice deep and sensuous.

Blue eyes met. A smile grew on Enjolras' lips, brought about by a new whimper. The sensation of the hard flesh against his own was enrapturing.

"You have me."

He gave one last stroke before letting go of them. They shared a tenderer kiss before Grantaire leant towards the nightstand. Enjolras hastily took the rest of his clothes off. Grantaire's pants were a nightmare to slip along his thighs, but once past the knees, they came off effortlessly. Enjolras had a fleeting moment of awe before that finally naked body. He knew the tattoos by heart, the crevices of his ribs, the slight curves of his hips. Yet, having them in front of his very eyes was a world apart from simply remembering them.

Grantaire settled back against the headrest, seemingly lost in a similar contemplation. The previously sultry embrace faded into amorous affection, one looking at the other, realising how far they had come. All had been laid on the table, and they were now pleasantly exposed, in bodies as in minds. Grantaire put the condom he was holding down on the sheets, within reach, and slicked his fingers with lube. Enjolras shuffled closer, their chests touching, leaving enough space between them for him to foster Grantaire's arousal. His back arched backward, anticipating the feeling to come.

The tip of Grantaire's fingers felt cold, clashing with the heat of his body. Enjolras let out a shuddering sigh at both the coolness and the sensation against his entrance. Grantaire took his time, preparing him gently, thoroughly. The open kisses he laid all over Enjolras' neck followed the movements of his wrist, rolling his tongue on the tender skin whenever his finger curled a little, earning gasps and moans. Between them, Enjolras kept working him slowly, never driving him to oblivion. They still had much to do before that.

Grantaire withdrew. Understanding the silent cue, Enjolras took the condom and tried to twist the wrapping open, unsuccessfully. After a good minute of struggle, they both broke into a breathless chuckle. Wordlessly, Grantaire took it from him, trading it against a kiss. The wrapping came undone. Finally ready, forehead to forehead, Grantaire pushed into him.

The foreign pressure and discomfort lasted the time of a peck. They drank in each others relieved sighs, pressing their bodies closer. Enjolras rolled his hips slowly, sending the first ripple of pleasure through them. Grantaire was warm against him, the scent of honey and soap merging with his own. They held tight, relishing the friction, the heat, the softness of it all.

Suddenly, Grantaire wrapped an arm around Enjolras' waist and tipped him backwards, taking charge of the pace. Grabbing the edge of the bed, Grantaire gave a harder thrust, cupping Enjolras' hip with his other hand. They moaned in unison. Enjolras buried his head in his boyfriend's shoulder, reaching for the wet curls, muffling lewd sound after lewd sound. He had forgotten how good it felt, how good _Grantaire_ felt. Even with his memory intact, he couldn't have fathomed the extent of his pleasure. Grantaire's laboured breath was tickling his neck, punctuated by grunts with each push forward.

"Grantaire," Enjolras called, his voice just a panting whisper. "I want to look at you."

Where just a tilt of his chin would have sufficed, Grantaire rolled them over, placing Enjolras on top. Breathless, Enjolras straightened his back, taking an eyeful of the body sprawled under him. Grantaire's chest was heaving, marking his ribs with each breath out. His face was beautifully flushed and his eyes expectant. Helped by the hands on his hips Enjolras gave him more reasons to blush, watching rapture parting his lips, tensing and relaxing his features at times. When they weren't busy steering their movements, Grantaire's hands explored everything they could reach, increasing Enjolras' pleasure tenfold. It took a moment before Enjolras realised Grantaire was talking, his head buzzing from his own love sounds.

"Enjolras," he was painting. "Hold me..."

Aching for him, Enjolras opened his arms and Grantaire sat up, aligning their bodies.

"Mon amour," he kept calling, lost in ecstasy. "Mon amour."

They were an entanglement of limbs, short breaths and heavy moans. Enjolras wrapped his legs and arms around Grantaire, engulfed by his warmth. A few more jerks of hips, and he came apart. His body was caught in a trance, stunned for a second before he let go, fallen to the grip of bliss. Grantaire was next, bursting into a strangled shout as he came, lifting them slightly as his legs spasmed.

Slumped against each other, they caught messy breaths. There was not enough energy in the whole world to power a single muscle. Out of breath, Grantaire let himself fall backwards, pulling Enjolras along with him. Their hearts talked to each other in morse code, pulsing, throbbing, separated by mere inches. Enjolras could have fallen asleep right there, if Grantaire had not shuffled to get rid of the condom. He let out a whining sound in protest, and Grantaire, finally free, behaved.

"Your hair," the other said after a while, straightening a blond lock. "It's longer."

A drowsy smile parted Enjolras' lips.

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's never been this long. I like it."

Enjolras propped himself on his elbows and reached for Grantaire's naked cheeks.

"And you've never been that close shaven."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't mind it," Enjolras shrugged. "But I prefer your prickly exterior."

Grantaire gave a warm laugh, pulling Enjolras into a kiss.

"I know! It reflects my personality! It's absolutely fantastic!"

A knock on the door startled them. Thank goodness whoever was standing on the other side didn't get the bright idea to walk in. Nevertheless, Enjolras folded the cover on them both.

"Guys?"

Bossuet. Oh Lord, how long had he been there? Enjolras hadn't heard the front door closing, and, judging by the look on his face, neither had Grantaire.

"Yeah?"

"Chetta is asking what toppings you want on your pizzas."

A small chuckle lifted Grantaire's chest, quickly growing into a full blown laughing fit.

"Whatever she wants! Moby dicks if she so pleases!"

"She doesn't condone whale hunting," Bossuet laughed behind the door. "Alright, carry on!"

Muffled voices rose beside Bossuet's, one Enjolras recognised as Joly's:

"What are they doing?" he was asking.

"Playing legos," the other answered.

Enjolras frowned and waited for the voices to disappear to ask:

"Playing legos?"

"Yes, mon ange, we _fit_ together."

He gave an exaggerated roll of hips to demonstrate and Enjolras rolled his eyes in return. Of course. So that was what he was going to be subjected to now. He couldn't say that he minded. Not with Grantaire warm against him. Setting that prospect aside, he reverted his attention back to the tattoos. There was one he knew well, on his knee cap, written in Elvish. He had gone with him to the tattoo parlour that day, since Jehan had had a lecture to attend to.

"Still wondering if you want one?" Grantaire asked as Enjolras continued his inspection.

"Maybe."

"Did you really want one to begin with? Or was it just an elaborate scheme to get my hands on you?"

Enjolras chuckled, laying a kiss onto Grantaire palm.

"It sure started off like that, then I got used to the idea. I've read too many books to back out now."

Lounged on the bed, Grantaire looked at him fondly, pulling Enjolras against him..

"Do you still want a flower?"

"Actually, I know just _the_ flower."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **French Trivia:**  
>  **Coco Pops:** I'm pretty sure you all know but maybe you don't have those, they're basically chocolate flavoured cereals  
>  **Plus Belle la Vie:** a French TV show that never seems to end. Ever.  
>  **Bordel de merde:** "Fuck this", basically. Literally "shitty brothel", for those who are interested. You never thing about that kind of stuff before translating them into an other language  
>  **Cookie Crisps:** Same as with Coco Pops, I'm mentioned them before but months ago, they're cookie shaped and flavoured cereals  
>  **Touche avec les yeux:** "Touche with your eyes" is a common saying when you crave something but you have to wait for it or are forbidden to touch  
>  **Mon amour:** "My love"  
>  Mon ange: "My angel" 
> 
> What a journey INDEED! I'm writing from the future, in a world where I have finished Forget me Not and... It's very strange. Fun fact: the first part of the chapter was painstakingly long to write for some reason (writer's block, it was writer's block), but the smut part only took me a day? A full day of smut, more than 2k, wow. The times I used to blush while writing the slightest explicit thing are FAR behind, my friend!  
> I had a lot of fun with this, because little by little the points of view merged slightly and they became a "they", because they're reunited, that was very sweet to write! And they're finally back together! WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT, after all that time.  
> Also some gratuitous JBM, just because I can and the world needs more!  
>   
> As ever, never hesitate to comment after reading! I always look forward to your messages like a kid on Christmas day it's RIDICULOUS! It's always nice to know people have liked your work, so ring me if you want to! You can also yell at me about dumb boys on tumblr at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com). See you soon for the Epilogue, my lovelies :') ♥


	20. Forget-Me-Nots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Here it is. The end. Can you believe it because I sure can't! If you look for me I'll be crying my weight in tears, just follow the wailing!  
> I'll let you jump right into it!
> 
> Betaed by: [sheergossamer](http://sheergossamer.tumblr.com)

"Will you stop moving?" Enjolras scolded for the umpteenth time.

Grantaire's chin firmly clasped between his thumb and index, Enjolras tried to steady him once more. His boyfriend was a bundle of nerves, twitching and blinking even before the eyeliner pen brushed his skin. It wasn't so much the approach of the pen that agitated him, but what was weighing on his mind.

"You know what? We should call it off! It was terrible idea!" Grantaire complained, his hands drumming nervously on the stage floor.

"She's already booked her train tickets, mon coeur. There is no going back now."

With an expert flick of his wrist, Enjolras managed to draw a black line on Grantaire's right lid. He had been served the same old skittish tune for a week now.

"If I remember correctly―and I have digital evidence of this―you're the one who encouraged me to get in touch with my mother again," he refreshed Grantaire's memory.

A sullen huff made the pen slip, leaving a noticeable smudge.

"And I regret that suggestion with every fiber of my being! You were right! I'm a stubbly self-employed artist, Enj! I'm the epitome of 'date me to disappoint your parents!' "

It was Enjolras' turn to scowl. Nerves were one thing, but he wouldn't let Grantaire paint such a depreciating portrait of himself. He abandoned his task with a sigh and put the pen away in his back pocket. If logic wouldn't talk some sense into him, Enjolras would have to use the big guns. Or, rather, the soft guns. He cradled Grantaire's jaw softly, brushing the stubble growing on his cheeks. His lips landed just above one of his thumb, then the other, then on his nose, then on his chin. Only then did Grantaire agreed to meet his eyes.

"She's coming to visit _me_. It's alright. You're just―"

"Collateral damage?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the playful grin. Grantaire was impossible.

"I was going to say 'worrying too much' or 'taking Murphy's law too seriously', actually."

His frustration was quickly swept away by a brush of Grantaire's lips. Thank goodness he had been nowhere near that nervous upon meeting Grantaire's mother. Or, rather, that was how he chose to remember that afternoon. Grantaire, on the other hand, always took great pleasure in reminding him his knees were singing the Cucaracha when he had pressed the doorbell. But at _least_ he had not tried to call the whole thing off. Alright, maybe just once.

"She'll be in and out of Paris in no time, I promise," Enjolras said, brandishing the eyeliner once more. "She's a bit―well―conservative in her tastes, but she's alright."

"Does she share her son's taste in men?"

"She married a blonde FN supporter whose idea of fun consists solely of watching the Tour de France and who complains that the French football team doesn't look white enough. Hold still."

Grantaire snorted and tipped his chin up docilely, for once. He almost looked peaceful, with his lashes downcast, his lips pursed slightly, expecting the faint tickle of the pen. Enjolras kissed the tip of his nose, and got back to work. In no time, the smudge were forgotten and Grantaire's gaze was deepened, framed by skillfully applied liner. It became very hard not to stare. It was a shame that, given the heat, Enjolras' hard work would probably turn into smoky eyes in twenty minutes.

"How do I look?" Grantaire asked, though Enjolras imagined his smitten expression was obvious enough to give his answer away.

The sun hit the flecks of golden glitter Enjolras had applied on Grantaire cheekbones earlier, and his smile grew even larger.

"Dazzling. You may actually want to tone it down a notch," he beamed.

On stage, Bossuet was already checking the amps and the mics, producing the most hateful sound known to man. Enjolras glanced at his watch: ten minutes left before the first song.

"You should go," he said. "It's almost time."

Grantaire's show of pouting and lash fluttering only came to an end when Enjolras mercifully pulled him into a kiss. He could almost taste glitter and the warmth of the sun on his lips. For a moment, the buzzing of the gathering crowd disappeared, and the only breeze gliding on his skin was their mingling breaths. As Grantaire grew eager, Enjolras reluctantly pulled away.

"Go!" he chuckled, pushing Grantaire's shoulders lightly. "Check your bass or whatever!"

He hopped off the stage, waving at Bossuet, who was being pampered and prepared by Musichetta, far far away from the amps. Eponine had taken over the task of testing the equipment, doing a much quieter job of it than her bandmate. Jehan was the only one missing. As Enjolras turned his back, an unmistakable voice shouted above the rumble of conversations:

"I'm checking you out too!"

A few glances fell on Enjolras and his fond smile. Working his way through the crowd, he looked for the gaudy yellow and black stall of the ABC. He craned his neck, seeking Bahorel among a hundred other faces. Though not Bahorel's, he did find some familiar profiles. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were standing a few paces away, in the unmistakable company of Montparnasse. They didn't exactly look thrilled by their proximity, their glares burning more of dislike than goodwill. Enjolras felt a hint of panic rising in his chest. If Courfeyrac and Montparnasse were to spill bad blood, the mood of the concert would shift drastically. Suddenly, a flash of silver and copper caught his eye, slithering nimbly through an ocean of people. Enjolras managed to catch the spark by his arm.

"Jehan!" he called.

Jehan glanced around, caught like a deer in the headlights. The lustre of his silver sequin tank top was almost blinding. So was the rest of his outfit, but for different reasons. There was only Jehan to wear nyan cat leggings on stage. By the time Enjolras had noticed the bizarre combo, his friend had a smile on his face.

"Oh! Salut, Enj!"

"Salut! Listen, don't you think we should separate these two before they tear at each other's throats?"

Enjolras pointed at Courfeyrac and Montparnasse with his chin. In spite of recent clarifications about Montparnasse's character, he doubted it'd be enough for Courfeyrac to consider him a friend. From where he was standing, Enjolras could even feel the belligerent tension reeking from these two. On his tiptoes, Jehan sighed.

"I swear, these two should light the joint of friendship once and for all," he said. "That'd loosen them up a bit."

He waved in their direction, almost bouncing to be seen, the sequin jacket clinking.

"Parnasse! Parnasse!"

A few heads away, the man looked up, frowning at the call of his name. Enjolras realised he had never seen him in daylight before. Montparnasse had always been this shadowy figure, always half coated in darkness, clashing with Jehan's chaotic and colourful aesthetic. Though he didn't look like an altar boy by day, his boyish features were far from what Enjolras had imagined. The sullen expression painted on his youthful face softened immediately when his gaze fell on them. Or, rather, on Jehan.

As though the spikes on his leather jacket were magnetised by Jehan himself―and probably relieved to get away from Courfeyrac―Montparnasse elbowed his way towards them. He wasn't particularly tender about it, but it got the job done. In the blink of an eye, he was standing next to Jehan, not so much looming over him than providing a nice shade.

"You promised you'd be nice to Courfeyrac," Jehan reminded him, crossing his arms against his chest.

"I _am_ nice to him. I'm not talking to him, that counts as a kindness! Is that glitter?"

Montparnasse's thumb hovered over Jehan's cheekbone. At first, Enjolras thought he was wiping the makeup away, before realising it just served as an excuse to cup his boyfriend's face. There was a sudden mix of discomfort and fascination running through Enjolras. Prying on couples was far from his idea of a good time, but the picture was so odd that he couldn't avert his gaze. There was something shining in Montparnasse's eyes when he was looking at Jehan. The sequin jacket, perhaps.

"Promise me you'll talk to him. _Nicely_."

"I promise," Montparnasse rolled his eyes before drawing a cross on Jehan's bare shoulder. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

A sustained shade of pink spread across Jehan's cheeks, driving him to stroke an inexistent stand of hair behind his ear. Perhaps his fluster drew his eyes directly on Enjolras, for he suddenly cleared his throat loudly.

"Enjolras, meet Montparnasse. Parnasse, meet Enjolras."

By the semi startled look on Montparnasse's face, it was evident the man had not realised they had company. His expression turned suddenly neutral and impossible to read, far from the fond look he had given Jehan just a second ago. Enjolras hesitated to hold out his hand, half-convinced Montparnasse wouldn't shake it. After a few second of awkward staring, a delicate hand stretched out to him, to Enjolras' utmost surprise. There were not the hands he had pictured either, but they were deceivingly strong.

"Mention Beyoncé to Courf," Enjolras advised. "That should keep him talking for a solid hour."

Montparnasse seemed to consider the advice, judging if Enjolras was being serious, before smiling slightly. He didn't come across as someone who smiled often. Perhaps Jehan was rubbing off on him, rather than the other way around.

"Shouldn't you be on stage?" Enjolras pointed out, looking back at Jehan.

"Shit, yes!" he exclaimed, taking Montparnasse's hand hurriedly, dragging him forward.

They were out of sight quickly. Enjolras kept his eyes locked on the back of Montparnasse's head until the taller figure disappeared into the swarm. Instinctively, his gaze also raked the stage for Grantaire. He heard him first. In spite of the people gathered around, his laughter was loud enough to cover the buzz. Following the sound, Enjolras saw a mop of curls thrown back, a bright smile and a hand holding on to Eponine's shoulder. At least the stress of the stage was nothing to worry about.

Bahorel, Feuilly and Cosette were still sat at the ABC stall when Enjolras finally made his way back. Amnesty International's yellow and black banner was floating gently on the table, lifted by a soft wind. It was wonderful day of early September; they couldn't have hoped for a better weather. The sun was out, the heat was tolerable and, with a bit of luck, the audience would be generous enough to make donations. It had been Enjolras idea, to sell Allan Edgar Poe & the Romantics' merch during music festivals. They had found people were a lot more inclined to be generous right after a gig. "Endorphins," Combeferre had declared learnedly. Enjolras could feel them running through his body as he sat down between Feuilly and Cosette.

"So far it's been three tees and fifteen posters," Feuilly announced proudly, making neat piles with the coins and notes they had collected, putting them away in a tin box.

"We're just getting started," Enjolras said confidently. "There will be more than that once they start playing. People are more willing to pay for things when they know it's for charity."

In the distance, the first strike of chords rang, reverberated by the amps. From where they were sat, the stage was half hidden by the audience. Grantaire only stood out by his hair and the hint of his forehead. They'd have to crane their necks to get a glimpse of Bossuet, Jehan or Eponine.

"Beer?" Bahorel asked Enjolras, his hand already clasping a cheap can.

The cooler at his feet was full to bursting. If Enjolras was being honest, he was more tempted by the ice cubes littering the box than the bottles themselves. They had not exactly chosen the spot with the best shade.

"I'll stick to water, thanks," he replied with a slight shake of his head. "I still haven't recovered from Rock en Seine."

Feuilly and Bahorel shared a smug smile at that, probably remembering that night in a lot more details than Enjolras ever would.

"Are you guys ready for tonight?" Cosette asked conversationally, sipping on her can of Coke.

"What's happening tonight?" Bahorel and Feuilly inquired in unison, before high-fiving each other.

"Enjolras' mother is visiting."

A mighty roar swept around the table and a myriad of taps on the back and congratulations followed. Caught in the midst of the cheerful atmosphere, Enjolras tried to tone down his latent nervosity. It was less pronounced than Grantaire's, but it was still a tight knot in his stomach. There was almost a three year gap to bridge between them. Enjolras had taken the first step to close it by calling her, giving her news. She had taken the second by suggesting a visit. Perhaps they would meet halfway.

"That's great," Feuilly enthused. "I'm happy for you two! Grantaire must be―"

"Utterly terrified," Enjolras finished. "He's already decided she'll hate his guts no matter what, but he'll survive. She's just here for the weekend."

Next to him, Cosette shuffled her chair closer, enough to reach his face and kiss his cheek.

"You two are adorable together. I'm sure she'll succumb to Grantaire's charms."

"As long as he holds his usual flow of innuendos," Bahorel snickered. "You should wash that boy's mouth with soap before he goes anywhere near your mom."

After a thorough inspection of the cooler, he abandoned his slumped position and got up.

"Alright," Bahorel grinned, clapping his hands together. "I'll go and get something classier than Kro to toast awkward parental visits. Anyone wants anything?"

"Get me a Leffe Ruby, nounours," Feuilly said, already fiddling with the cap of his current beer.

Bahorel tilted his boyfriend's chin up, giving him a quick upside down kiss.

"I'll get out a freezing cold one, you flaming gingerbread man."

"Baz, if you could also look around to see if you can find Marius, please?" Cosette asked, her voice higher-pitched than usual. "He's not answering my calls."

Bahorel cracked his knuckles, then his back for show, bracing himself for the serious shoulder work to come.

"A Leffe and a Pontmercy. Easy. Be right back!"

The first song split the air as Bahorel went on his merry way. Like Enjolras had predicted, the purses magically loosened to the sound of music, keeping the stall busy. AEP&R didn't hold a candle to other, more famous bands that were playing during the festival, but they did enjoy a dash of local fame. A big part of it—besides the music itself—was due to Bahorel and Courfeyrac, whose lists of acquaintances were longer than a terms and agreement contract. It was easy to gather a crowd when you already had one in your contacts list.

Two dozen pin badges, two t-shirts and five posters later, Bahorel's "be right back" started to sound a little ironical. Drumming nervously on the table, Cosette's gaze kept raking the horizon, paying little attention to the music or anything else.

"Do you think they're okay? They should be back by now, shouldn't they?" she said, worried.

Feuilly merely shrugged, his hands full with notes he was counting. Enjolras stroked Cosette's back gently. She wasn't the worrying type, but Marius plus crowd plus big open spaces wasn't exactly a winning combination.

"Marius didn't step into a blackhole," Enjolras said warmly.

"Bahorel's probably bumped into someone he knows," Feuilly added with a reassuring smile. "He'll be back soon, he's promised me an ice cold beer and I'll be damned if he gets here with anything warmer than that."

Cosette nodded, but her eyes kept dancing over the heads all the same. Loathe to see her bright smile fading away, Enjolras' lips thinned and he took out his phone. If Bahorel wouldn't give them updates, he would get them himself. Except Bahorel had already beaten him to it. His screen popped up with notifications, all from the same person:

 **Baz [15:45]** someone is looking for you  
**Baz [15:46]** i think it's your mom? Blonde 40/50 suburban mom meet bourgeoise chic?  
**Baz [15:46]** ring a bell or nah?

Enjolras' heart jumped painfully in his throat. The knot in his stomach tightened. It did ring a bell, a very loud bell. So loud that it covered Jehan's voice and the music, muting the rest of the world altogether. What was she doing here? She was supposed to arrive much later in the evening! He was not ready! Grantaire was not ready! A cold wave of anguish heaved his chest, blocking the entry of his lungs. It wasn't what they had planned!

"Enjolras? Everything alright?"

The hand on his shoulder startled him. His bubble of stupor burst and the world imposed itself back to him. The music was suddenly deafening, but Bossuet's drums were nothing compared to the throbbing of his heart. Feuilly was staring at him, his fingers drawing small circles on Enjolras' shoulder.

"I―I think my mother's here?"

Saying it out loud made it even more preposterous. He tried to picture his mother, always dressed up to the nines, surrounded by hyper and boozy college kids, and failed miserably.

"Well that is..." Feuilly began, taking in the news. "Unexpected."

"Where is she?" Cosette asked.

The question was soon transferred to Bahorel, who was merciful enough to reply within seconds.

 **Baz [15:49]** the refreshment booth  
**Baz [15:49]** i'm with her and marius  
**Baz [15:50]** she took me for a security guy for some reason???  
**Baz [15:50]** which is hilarious tbh

Enjolras stared at his phone. The refreshment booth was ridiculously close, but it was hidden behind a group of tourists that tiptoed to take pictures of the concert. She was there. Enjolras pushed back his chair, trying to take a deep and confident breath.

"Marius and Bahorel are coming," he said to the others, before plunging head first into the ever growing tide of people.

It wasn't ideal. It was far from the reunion he had imagined. He had pictured something calmer, and significantly less crowded, where they could have talked easily without shouting every two words. He thought of Grantaire, blissfully unaware on stage. Enjolras tried to steal a glance in his direction, but none of the heads he saw was his. The past days spent reassuring him rang pretty hypocrite now.

The group of tourists made Enjolras take a ludicrous detour. He too, was walking on the pads of his toes, looking for a reflection of blonde hair, so similar to his. What would he tell her? He had thought about it before―all week, actually―but his brain chose this exact moment to fall short of ideas. Typical. Of course, it was Bahorel's towering stature that drew his eyes first. His throat tightened. He felt excitement lunging in his chest and apprehension weighing on his shoulders. What if he didn't recognise her at all? Or the other way around? Enjolras caught a glimpse of Marius' face, somewhere around Bahorel's shoulder, and took a final step to extricate himself from the crowd.

Blue eyes met his, as though Enjolras was looking into a mirror. The blonde hair, the same shade as his own, had been trimmed shorter since he last saw her. Only the parentheses surrounding her mouth marked the passage of the years. His mother smiled brightly, and Enjolras felt the knot in his stomach loosen.

He couldn't remember who went to whom first, but they were holding each other in a matter of seconds. The embrace was tighter than Enjolras expected, as though his mother was trying to make up for three years of absence.

"It's good to see you," she whispered in his ear.

"It's good to see you too."

Over her shoulder, Enjolras saw Marius waving timidly at him, following Bahorel away from the refreshment booth to give them a bit of privacy. As much as privacy was achievable at a concert. She never really let go of him, even when the embrace ended. Her hands were always busy cupping his cheeks or rubbing his shoulders, as though to check her son was well and truly standing there.

"I wasn't expecting you so early," Enjolras admitted. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"You did mention a musical event of some kind over the phone," she reminded him, chasing a bit of fluff from in his hair. "I'm not completely out of the loop, I know how to use the Google."

Enjolras caught the fit of laughter rolling in his throat before it came out. He has missed the sound of her voice. For some reason, he had thought it would have changed, that it would have gone deeper. She had hardly changed, except for the haircut and the slight indent in her skin. With her demure summer outfit, she was like a white horse in a herd of zebras.

"Your hair's grown so much!" she remarked, pulling one of Enjolras' curls softly. "Is that the trend now?"

It wasn't said with malice, the way his father would have probably put it.

"Grantaire likes it," Enjolras said, a fond smile wandering on his lips, his mind supplying memories of tangled limbs and rumpled sheets, of Grantaire pointing out the same thing.

He waited for a reaction, anything that would have given his mother's disapproval away, but nothing came. The mention of a boyfriend didn't lessen her smile, contrary to what he had expected. It was easy to hide disappointment on the phone, even though she had warmly welcomed the news then. _As long as you're happy_ , she had said. Her sincerity lifted a weight off his chest, one he didn't even know he was carrying.

"And where is this famous Grantaire I keep hearing about?"

There was a certain eagerness in her voice. Enjolras felt like an idiot for worrying so much. Grantaire had been right, breaking all ties with her had been unfair. All the resentment he held for his father had skewed his vision. Enjolras could see that now. He knew what it was to be wrong and to accept it.

"I don't know if you'll manage to get a good look," he said turning over to the stage. "He's the one with the bass guitar over there."

The refreshment booth was standing on a slight slope, making it easier to watch the concert. From where he was, Enjolras could see Grantaire's outline clearly, though he was too far away to make out his expression. A deep feeling of pride swelled his chest, seeing Grantaire like this. It wasn't the first time he'd seen him play, but it was the first time he knew he would come home with the bassist afterwards.

"A musician," his mother commented with a nod.

"An artist," Enjolras corrected.

He gazed on, the atmosphere of the stage floating towards him like an intoxicating haze. He longed to get closer, to share that moment with him. What was it like, from his vantage point? Fingers tickled his arm, pulling up the short sleeve of his green shirt. Grantaire's shirt. His mother rolled up the hem, revealing the blue flowers blooming under the fabric. The scars were still visible under the tattoo, intended within his flesh. He hadn't wished to cover them all. _It's just skin_ , he had once said.

Enjolras knew she disapproved, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She was probably thinking about this skin she had made and how he had chosen to adorn it. Perhaps she hadn't been expecting flowers, of all things.

"It's very well done," was all that she said.

"Thank you," Enjolras replied, not only talking about the compliment.

The conversation flowed easily, proving his apprehensions wrong. There were a little less than three years to cover, of course they would have things to talk about, how stupid of him to think otherwise! Enjolras had more to tell than her, but he didn't mind it. The memories he had, he had to share, after being stripped of them for so long.

They started walking towards the ABC stall, avoiding the crowd as much as possible. Enjolras could see the bright yellow, a few paces away. He was so engrossed in the conversation that he didn't notice the music had stopped playing. What he did notice, on the other hand, was Grantaire approaching, holding his sweat-drenched top in his hand.

"Thank fuck for the intermission, I was drowning!" he smiled, his wet chest heaving slightly.

Enjolras stared at his boyfriend, his shirtless, foul-mouthed, sweaty boyfriend and burst out laughing. Grantaire couldn't have gone for a worse first impression if he had tried. His makeup had run to the corner of his eyes, the sun and the effort had flushed his face and his hair had stopped obeying the laws of physics. And yet, for all those little things, Enjolras felt irremediably in love with him.

"What?"

"Maman, let me introduce you to my boyfriend, Grantaire."

Grantaire's face drained under his flushed skin. His eyes went from Enjolras to the woman standing next to him. The resemblance was too striking to leave any doubts in his mind.

"I―I―" he stammered with difficulty, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "This is not―I'm usually vaguely more presentable. I―Grantaire."

If Enjolras' mother wasn't charmed, she was nonetheless smiling.

"It's quite alright," she said. "Marie-Christine."

"I'm sorry, I would shake your hand but..."

He showed a hand dripping with sweat as an explanation, and Marie-Christine gladly understood. There was an awkward moment of silence between them, furnished by the surrounding idle chatter. Grantaire gave Enjolras a pressing look, but before he could open his mouth and drop any conversation starter, his mother asked:

"Did you two get these at the same time?"

She was pointing at Grantaire's forearm, where a hyacinth had grown, about three weeks ago. If Enjolras and Grantaire stood side by side, their flowers would touch, reaching for each other.

"Yes! Yes, we did, actually," Grantaire nodded, glad he finally had something to say.

"Grantaire designed them himself," Enjolras added proudly.

After all, hadn't she marvelled at the craftsmanship, earlier? Marie-Christine nodded, seemingly impressed.

"An artist," she recalled.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire, whose fluster was growing strong again. He would have elaborated about how Grantaire had spent uncountable hours on the designs, but his attempt was cut short:

"Marie-Christine! I never would've thought I'd see you in such a den of depravity!"

The trio turned around. A few paces away, Courfeyrac had his arms wide open in their direction, and an even wider grin on his face. He was closely followed by Combeferre, whose enthusiasm always seemed more sober when compared to his boyfriend's, but genuine nonetheless. It was Marie-Christine's turn to give an elated cry:

"My goodness, you've grown!"

Enjolras remembered how he had felt, back at the hospital, when he had seen Combeferre for the first time. Though unmistakable, Combeferre bore little resemblance to his eighteen year old self. Not to mention Courfeyrac. He knew how his mother felt, in that moment, like a strange feeling of déjà-vu.

Embraces and small talk ensued. Courfeyrac had always known how to charm parents, even back in high school. Lending a distracted ear to the reunion, Enjolras looked at Grantaire over his mother's shoulder. He seemed thoroughly pleased not to be standing under the spotlight anymore. Combeferre and Courfeyrac's timely arrival had given him time to catch a well deserved breather.

"Is there a mademoiselle Courfeyrac or a mademoiselle Combeferre around?" Marie-Christine asked playfully.

All four shared an amused look.

"Actually no, there isn't," Combeferre answered, taking Courfeyrac's hand and lacing their finger together in full view.

A long bewildered "oh" followed the realization. For a second, Enjolras thought it would be too much for her to handle. There was a threshold of tolerance conservatives wouldn't cross. He wondered what would be the last straw: Courfeyrac's crop top or Combeferre's undercut. His mother merely smiled politely.

"The journey must have drained you!" Combeferre continued. "Let us offer you something to drink, it's the least we can do!"

Courfeyrac gave Enjolras a side glance and a wink, though Enjolras already knew what Combeferre was doing. His impeccable manners had the advantage to seem authentic at all times, even when they served an agenda.

"Gladly," his mother sighed, fanning herself with her hand. "We don't get that kind of weather in Normandy. Boys?"

She looked at Enjolras and Grantaire as an invitation to tag along.

"Actually, I have to run back on stage in a minute," Grantaire said, somewhat embarrassed.

"I'll be there in a minute," Enjolras assured.

They left for the refreshment booth, Courfeyrac arm entwined with Marie-Christine's, his free hand already punctuating his speech lively. Finally alone, Enjolras cradled Grantaire's face, using his thumbs to wipe out the smeared makeup at the corner of his eyes. That would teach him to buy the cheapest liners on the market.

"She took it better than I expected," Enjolras admitted with a smile, looking at their vanishing forms in the crowd.

"I thought she was only supposed to get here tonight," Grantaire accused.

He closed his eyes to let Enjolras deal with the smudges on his lids. At least the glitter was still there, lighting up his skin nicely.

"She was, but she took another train. She wanted to spend more time with me."

"And yet, here you are."

"And yet, here I am."

Within the short time they had, Grantaire found another and drier shirt to wear. Bahorel handed him a bottle of water straight from the cooler. Changed and pampered, he looked ready to go back on stage.

"Do you think she likes me?" he asked as Enjolras was trying to tame his hair.

"Who knows? If it's any consolation, my first impression of you was pretty catastrophic. Both first impressions, actually."

Grantaire wrinkled his nose and pouted, his arms winding around Enjolras' waist. His fingers wandered in blonde curls, imitating those playing atop his head. Enjolras bent slightly and rubbed their noses together It felt tempting, to keep Grantaire with him, to share a beer and sit on the grass, enjoying the last good days of summer. In a few hours, perhaps.

"It's time," Enjolras whispered, pointing his chin towards the stage.

The audience was getting restless. Through the amps, they could hear Jehan testing the mics. Grantaire let go of Enjolras, giving him a small kiss before parting.

"Love you," he said.

"Love you."

Enjolras didn't catch up with his mother right away. He stayed there, taking in the rays of the sun, of a long summer that had taken and given back more than he would have ever believed possible. Grantaire's voice rose and filled the air. He was the one singing, this time. A soft breeze tickled Enjolras' skin, and he lifted his hand to stroke the blue flowers that would never wither on his arm. He could almost feel the forget-me-nots swaying under the gentle wind.

_"Actually, I know just the flower," his own voice echoed in the back of his mind_

_"Do tell," Grantaire had said, settling himself up with interest._

_Enjolras remembered their naked bodies, still warm and shining, the feeling of complicity flowing back between them. He had taken Grantaire's hand and placed it on his scars._

_"Forget-me-nots, right here."_

_Forget-me-nots. Memories and true love. Grantaire had glanced up, his flush entirely different from that of their previous exertions. His fingers and lips had covered the blank canvas. Enjolras still felt them, sometimes, like they had never left his skin since._

_"Forget-me-nots it is."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **French Trivia:**  
>  **Mon ange:** French pet name that translates to "my angel" because Enjolras, angel, all that jazz  
>  **FN:** Front National, the French far right party  
>  **"Salut":** "Hi"  
>  **Rock en Seine:** a music festival that is held near Paris in the last days of August. I like to imagine les Amis going there every year because music festivals o/  
>  **Kro:** Kronenbourg, probably the cheapest beer you can find  
>  **Leffe Ruby:** A /slightly/ better beer  
>  **"Nounours":** French pet name that literally translates to "teddy bear"  
>  **Maman:** Mom  
>  **Mademoiselle:** Miss
> 
> For those wondering, Grantaire has a hyacinth because Hyacinth was Apollo's lover. Symbolism my pal o/  
> Oh wow. Here it is. It has come to an end. I'd like to thank you all for all the love and support you gave this fic! Your comments, kudos and bookmarks kept me going along the way and it's the best thing a writer could hope for. Really, thank you so much ♥ Thank you to all my mutuals and friends with whom I've talked about this fic and made me feel loved and rewarded me as a writer ♥ I can't believe this is over. May you remember this story with fondness and good memories!
> 
>  **If you're reading this way after it's published** : Please never hesitate to leave a comment. It's never too late. I'm not going to forget that fic and it will not mean less to me. This fic represents almost one whole year of my life, so don't hesitate to share your feelings and thoughts! I'd truly and greatly appreciate it!
> 
> As always, I'll be found at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) on tumblr, mourning my fic but also relishing the journey it's been!
> 
> Anyway. Thank you to you all for this wonderful year, whether you read from the beginning back in August or if you've started it 5 hours ago ♥ It means the world to me!


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